LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


THE  STORIES  OF  H.   C.  BUNNER 


"SHORT    SIXES" 
THE    SUBURBAN   SAGE 


BY  H.  C.  BVNNER 

"SHORT  SIXES"  AND  THE  SUBURBAN  SAGE 
MORE  "SHORT  SIXES"  AND  THE  RUNAWAY 

BROWNS 

STORIES  :  FIRST  SERIES.  The  Story  of  a  New 
York  House,  The  Midge,  Jersey  Street  and  Jersey 
Lane 

STORIES  !  SECOND  SERIES.  Love  in  Old  Cloathes 
and  Other  Stories,  Zadoc  Pine  and  Other  Stories 

The  above  4  volumes  in  Uniform  Binding 


POEMS.       With    an    Introduction    by    Brander 
Matthews 

JERSEY  STREET   AND  JERSEY  LANE.        Urban 
and  Suburban  Sketches 

THE  STORY  OP  A  NEW  YORK  HOUSE 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


A   PECULIAR  GRITTING   NOISE  MADE   HER   LOOK   DOWN 


THE   STORIES 

OP 

H.  C.  BUNNER 


"  SHORT   SIXES" 

STORIES    TO    BE    READ    WHILE 
THE    CANDLE   BURNS 

THE   SUBURBAN   SAGE 

STRAY    NOTES    AND    COMMENTS 
ON   HIS   SIMPLE   LIFE 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1919 


"SHORT  SIXES" 

Copyright,   1890,  by 
ALICE   LARNED   BUNNER 


THE  SUBURBAN  SAGE 

Copyright,   1896,  by 
ALICE   LARNED   BUNNER 


To 
A.   L.   B. 


CONTENTS 

"SHORT  SIXES":  PAG. 

THE  TENOR 1 

COL.  BRERETON'S  AUNTY 19 

^A  ROUND-UP 33 

THE  Two  CHURCHES  OF  'QUAWKET  ....  45 

THE  LOVE-LETTERS  OF  SMITH 57 

ZENOBIA'S  INFIDELITY 73 

THE  NINE  CENT-GIRLS 91 

^— THE  NICE  PEOPLE 107 

MR.  COPERNICUS  AND  THE  PROLETARIAT  .  .  .  121 

HECTOR 136 

A  SISTERLY  SCHEME 149 

Zozo  164 

AN  OLD,  OLD  STORY 180 

THE    SUBURBAN   SAGE: 

MR.  CHEDBY  ON  A  REGULAR  NUISANCE  .  .  .  195 
EARLY  STAGES  OF  THE  BLOOMER  FEVER  .  .  .  202 
THE  SUBURBAN  HORSE 210 

THE  BUILDING  CRAZE 220 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

THE  SUBURBAN  SAGE—  (Continued) :  PAG8 

MOVING  IN 228 

A  WATER-COLOR  HOUSE 237 

THE  POINTERS 245 

THE  FURNACE 252 

THE  TIME-TABLE  TEST 259 

THE  SOCIETY  CHURCH 267 

THE  SUBURBANITE  AND  His  GOLF     ....  276 

THE  SUBURBAN  DOG 283 

THE  NEWCOMERS 290 

THE  FIRST  OF  IT 298 

THE  SPORTING  SCHEME 307 

THE  EVOLUTION  OF  THE  SUBURBANITE  .          .  314 


" SHORT   SIXES" 

STORIES   TO   BE   READ   WHILE 
THE    CANDLE    BURNS 


THE   TENOR 

IT  was  a  dim,  quiet  room  in  an  old-fashioned 
New  York  house,  with  windows  opening  upon 
a  garden  that  was  trim  and  attractive,  even 
in  its  Winter  dress — for  the  rose-bushes  were  all 
bundled  up  in  straw  ulsters.  The  room  was 
ample,  yet  it  had  a  cosy  air.  Its  dark  hangings 
suggested  comfort  and  luxury,  with  no  hint  of 
gloom.  A  hundred  pretty  trifles  told  that  it  was 
a  young  girl's  room:  in  the  deep  alcove  nestled 
her  dainty  white  bed,  draped  with  creamy  lace 
and  ribbons. 

"I  was  so  afraid  that  I'd  be  late!" 
The  door  opened,  and  two  pretty  girls  came  in, 
one  in  hat  and  furs,  the  other  in  a  modest  house- 
dress.  The  girl  in  the  furs,  who  had  been  afraid 
that  she  would  be  late,  was  fair,  with  a  bright 
color  in  her  cheeks,  and  an  eager,  intent  look  in 
her  clear  brown  eyes.  The  other  girl  was  dark- 
eyed  and  dark-haired,  dreamy,  with  a  soft,  warm, 
dusky  color  in  her  face.  They  were  two  very 
pretty  girls  indeed — or,  rather,  two  girls  about  to 
be  very  pretty,  for  neither  one  was  eighteen  years 
old.  The  dark  girl  glanced  at  a  little  porcelain 
clock. 

"You  are  in  time,  dear,"  she  said,  and  helped 
her  companion  to  take  off  her  wraps. 

i 


2  THE   TENOR 

Then  the  two  girls  crossed  the  room,  and  with 
a  caressing  and  almost  a  reverent  touch,  the  dark 
girl  opened  the  doors  of  a  little  carven  cabinet 
that  hung  upon  the  wall,  above  a  small  table  cov 
ered  with  a  delicate  white  cloth.  In  its  depths, 
framed  in  a  mat  of  odorous  double  violets,  stood 
the  photograph  of  the  face  of  a  handsome  man 
of  forty — a  face  crowned  with  clustering  black 
locks,  from  beneath  which  a  pair  of  large,  mourn 
ful  eyes  looked  out  with  something  like  religious 
fervor  in  their  rapt  gaze.  It  was  the  face  of  a 
foreignei'. 

"0  Esther!"  cried  the  other  girl,  "how  beau 
tifully  you  have  dressed  him  to-day!" 

"I  wanted  to  get  more,"  Esther  said;  "but  I've 
spent  almost  all  my  allowance — and  violets  do 
cost  so  shockingly.  Come,  now — "  with  another 
glance  at  the  clock — "don't  let's  lose  any  more 
time,  Louise  dear." 

She  brought  a  couple  of  tiny  candles  in  Sevres 
candlesticks,  and  two  little  silver  saucers,  in  which 
she  lit  fragrant  pastilles.  As  the  pale  gray  smoke 
arose,  floating  in  faint  wreaths  and  spirals  before 
the  enshrined  photograph,  Louise  sat  down  and 
gazed  intently  upon  the  little  altar.  Esther  went 
to  her  piano  and  watched  the  clock.  It  struck  two. 
Her  hands  fell  softly  on  the  keys,  and,  studying 
a  printed  programme  in  front  of  her,  she  began 
to  play  an  overture.  After  the  overture  she 
played  one  or  two  pieces  of  the  regular  concert 
stock.  Then  she  paused. 

"I  can't  play  the  Tschaikowski  piece." 


THE    TENOR  3 

"Never  mind,"  said  the  other.  "Let  us  wait 
for  him  in  silence." 

The  hands  of  the  clock  pointed  to  2:29.  Each 
girl  drew  a  quick  breath,  and  then  the  one  at 
the  piano  began  to  sing  softly,  almost  inaudibly, 
"les  Rameaux"  in  a  transcription  for  tenor  of 
Faure's  great  song.  When  it  was  ended,  she 
played  and  sang  the  encore.  Then,  with  her 
fingers  touching  the  keys  so  softly  that  they 
awakened  only  an  echo-like  sound,  she  ran  over 
the  numbers  that  intervened  between  the  first 
tenor  solo  and  the  second.  Then  she  sang  again, 
as  softly  as  before. 

The  fair-haired  girl  sat  by  the  little  table, 
gazing  intently  on  the  picture.  Her  great  eyes 
seemed  to  devour  it,  and  yet  there  was  some 
thing  absent-minded,  speculative,  in  her  steady 
look.  She  did  not  speak  until  Esther  played  the 
last  number  on  the  programme. 

"He  had  three  encores  for  that  last  Satur 
day,"  she  said,  and  Esther  played  the  three 
encores. 

Then  they  closed  the  piano  and  the  little  cab 
inet,  and  exchanged  an  innocent  girlish  kiss, 
and  Louise  went  out,  and  found  her  father's 
coupe  waiting  for  her,  and  was  driven  away  to 
her  great,  gloomy,  brown-stone  home  near  Cen 
tral  Park. 

Louise  Laura  Latimer  and  Esther  Van  Guilder 
were  the  only  children  of  two  families  which, 
though  they  were  possessed  of  the  three  "Rs" 
which  are  all  and  more  than  are  needed  to  insure 


4  THE    TENOR 

admission  to  New  York  society — Riches,  Respect 
ability  and  Religion — yet  were  not  in  Society; 
or,  at  least,  in  the  society  that  calls  itself  So 
ciety.  This  was  not  because  Society  was  not 
willing  to  have  them.  It  was  because  they 
thought  the  world  too  worldly.  Perhaps  this 
was  one  reason — although  the  social  horizon  of 
the  two  families  had  expanded  somewhat  as  the 
girls  grew  up — why  Louise  and  Esther,  who  had 
been  playmates  from  their  nursery  days,  and 
had  grown  up  to  be  two  uncommonly  sentimental, 
fanciful,  enthusiastically  morbid  girls,  were  to  be 
found  spending  a  bright  Winter  afternoon  hold 
ing  a  ceremonial  service  of  worship  before  the 
photograph  of  a  fashionable  French  tenor. 

It  happened  to  be  a  French  tenor  whom  they 
were  worshiping.  It  might  as  well  have  been 
anybody  or  anything  else.  They  were  both  at 
that  period  of  girlish  growth  when  the  young 
female  bosom  is  torn  by  a  hysterical  craving  to 
worship  something — any  thing.  They  had  been 
studying  music,  and  they  had  selected  the  tenor 
who  was  the  sensation  of  the  hour  in  New  York 
for  their  idol.  They  had  heard  him  only  on  the 
concert  stage;  they  were  never  likely  to  see  him 
nearer.  But  it  was  a  mere  matter  of  chance  that 
the  idol  was  not  a  Boston  Transcendentalist,  a 
Popular  Preacher,  a  Faith-Cure  Healer,  or  a 
ringleted  old  maid  with  advanced  ideas  of  Wom 
an's  Mission.  The  ceremonies  might  have  been 
different  in  form:  the  worship  would  have  been 
the  same. 


THE   TENOR  5 

M.  Hyppolite  Remy  was  certainly  the  musical 
hero  of  the  hour.  When  his  advance  notices  first 
appeared,  the  New  York  critics,  who  are  a  singu 
larly  unconfiding,  incredulous  lot,  were  inclined 
to  discount  his  European  reputation. 

When  they  learned  that  M.  Remy  was  not  only 
a  great  artist,  but  a  man  whose  character  was 
"  wholly  free  from  that  deplorable  laxity  which 
is  so  often  a  blot  on  the  proud  escutcheon  of  his 
noble  profession;"  that  he  had  married  an  Amer 
ican  lady;  that  he  had  "embraced  the  Protestant 
religion" — no  sect  was  specified,  possibly  to  avoid 
jealousy — and  that  his  health  was  delicate,  they 
were  moved  to  suspect  that  he  might  have  to  ask 
that  allowances  be  made  for  his  singing.  But 
when  he  arrived,  his  triumph  was  complete.  He 
was  as  handsome  as  his  pictures,  if  he  was  a 
trifle  short,  a  shade  too  stout. 

He  was  a  singer  of  genius,  too ;  with  a  splendid 
voice  and  a  sound  method — on  the  whole.  It 
was  before  the  days  of  the  Wagner  autocracy, 
and  perhaps  his  tremolo  passed  unchallenged  as 
it  could  not  now;  but  he  was  a  great  artist.  He 
knew  his  business  as  well  as  his  advance-agent 
knew  his.  The  Remy  Concerts  were  a  splendid 
success.  Reserved  seats,  $5.  For  the  Series  of 
Six,  $25. 

•  •••••*• 

On  the  following  Monday,  Esther  Van  Guilder 
returned  her  friend's  call,  in  response  to  an  ur 
gent  invitation,  despatched  by  mail.  Louise  Lati- 
mer's  great  bare  room  was  incapable  of  trans- 


6  THE    TENOR 

mutation  into  a  cosy  nest  of  a  boudoir.  There 
was  too  much  of  its  heavy  raw  silk  furniture — 
too  much  of  its  vast,  sarcophagus-like  bed — too 
much  of  its  upholsterer's  elegance,  regardless  of 
cost — and  taste.  An  enlargement  from  an  am- 
brotype  of  the  original  Latiiner,  as  he  arrived  in 
New  York  from  New  Hampshire,  and  a  photo 
graph  of  a  " child  subject"  by  Millais,  were  all 
her  works  of  art.  It  was  not  to  be  doubted  that 
they  had  climbed  upstairs  from  a  front  parlor 
of  an  earlier  stage  of  social  development.  The 
farm-house  was  six  generations  behind  Esther; 
two  behind  Louise. 

Esther  found  her  friend  in  a  state  of  almost 
feverish  excitement.  Her  eyes  shone;  the  color 
burned  high  on  her  clear  cheeks. 

"You  never  would  guess  what  I've  done, 
dear!"  she  began,  as  soon  as  they  were  alone  in 
the  big  room.  "I'm  going  to  see  Mm — to  speak 
to  him — Esther!"  Her  voice  was  solemnly 
hushed,  "to  serve  him!" 

"Oh,  Louise!  what  do  you  mean?" 

"To  serve  him — with  my  own  hands!  To — to 
— help  him  on  with  his  coat — I  don 't  know — to  do 
something  that  a  servant  does — any  thing,  so 
that  I  can  say  that  once,  once  only,  just  for  an 
hour,  I  have  been  near  him,  been  of  use  to  him, 
served  him  in  one  little  thing,  as  loyally  as  he 
serves  OUR  ART." 

Music  was  THEIR  art,  and  no  capitals  could 
tell  how  much  it  was  theirs  or  how  much  of  an 
art  it  was. 


THE   TENOR  7 

"Louise,"  demanded  Esther,  with  a  frightened 
look,  "are  you  crazy?" 

"No.  Bead  this!"  She  handed  the  other  girl 
a  clipping  from  the  advertising  columns  of  a 
newspaper. 

CHAMBERMAID  AND  WAITRESS.- WANTED,  A  NEAT 
^^  and  willing  girl,  for  light  work.  Apply  to  Mme.  R£my, 
The  Midlothian Broadway 

"I  saw  it  just  by  accident,  Saturday,  after  I 
left  you.  Papa  had  left  his  paper  in  the  coupe. 
I  was  going  up  to  my  First  Aid  to  the  Injured 
Class — it's  at  four  o'clock  now,  you  know.  I 
made  up  my  mind  right  off — it  came  to  me  like  an 
inspiration.  I  just  waited  until  it  came  to  the 
place  where  they  showed  how  to  tie  up  the  arte 
ries,  and  then  I  slipped  out.  Lots  of  the  girls 
slip  out  in  the  horrid  parts,  you  know.  And  then, 
instead  of  waiting  in  the  ante-room,  I  put  on  my 
wrap,  and  pulled  the  hood  over  my  head  and 
ran  off  to  the  Midlothian — it's  just  around  the 
corner,  you  know.  And  I  saw  his  wife." 

"What  was  she  like?"  queried  Esther,  eagerly. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Sort  of  horrid — actressy. 
She  had  a  pink  silk  wrapper  with  swansdown  all 
over  it — at  four  o'clock,  think!  I  was  aivfully 
frightened  when  I  got  there;  but  it  wasn't  the 
least  trouble.  She  hardly  looked  at  me,  and  she 
engaged  me  right  off.  She  just  asked  me  if  I 
was  willing  to  do  a  whole  lot  of  things — I  forget 
what  they  were — and  where  I'd  worked  before. 
I  said  at  Mrs.  Barcalow's." 

"  'Mrs.  Barcalow's?'  " 

"Why,  yes — my  Aunt  Amanda,  don't  you  know 


8  THE    TENOR 

— up  in  Framingliam.  I  always  have  to  wash 
the  teacups  when  I  go  there.  Aunty  says  that 
everybody  has  got  to  do  something  in  her  house." 

''Oh,  Louise!"  cried  her  friend,  in  shocked 
admiration;  "how  can  you  think  of  such  things?" 

""Well,  I  did.  And  she — his  wife,  you  know — 
just  said:  'Oh,  I  suppose  you'll  do  as  well  as 
any  one — all  you  girls  are  alike.' 

"But  did  she  really  take  you  for  a — servant?" 

"Why,  yes,  indeed.  It  was  raining.  I  had 
that  old  ulster  on,  you  know.  I'm  to  go  at 
twelve  o'clock  next  Saturday." 

"But,  Louise!"  cried  Esther,  aghast,  "you 
don't  truly  mean  to  go!" 

"I  do!"  cried  Louise,  beaming  triumphantly. 

<(01i,  Louise!" 

"Now,  listen,  dear,"  said  Miss  Latimer,  with 
the  decision  of  an  enthusiastic  young  lady  with 
New  England  blood  in  her  veins.  "Don't  say  a 
word  till  I  tell  you  what  my  plan  is.  I've  thought 
it  all  out,  and  you've  got  to  help  me." 

Esther  shuddered. 

"You  foolish  child!"  cried  Louise.  Her  eyes 
were  sparkling:  she  was  in  a  state  of  ecstatic 
excitement;  she  could  see  no  obstacles  to  the 
carrying  out  of  her  plan.  "You  don't  think  I 
mean  to  stay  there,  do  you?  I'm  just  going  at 
twelve  o'clock,  and  at  four  he  comes  back  from 
the  matinee,  and  at  five  o'clock  I'm  going  to  slip 
on  my  things  and  run  downstairs,  and  have  you 
waiting  for  me  in  the  coupe,  and  off  we  go.  Now 
do  you  see?" 


THE    TENOR  9 

It  took  some  time  to  bring  Esther's  less  ven 
turesome  spirit  up  to  the  point  of  assisting  in 
this  bold  undertaking;  but  she  began,  after  a 
while,  to  feel  the  delights  of  vicarious  enterprise, 
and  in  the  end  the  two  girls,  their  cheeks  flushed, 
their  eyes  shining  feverishly,  their  voices  tremu 
lous  with  childish  eagerness,  resolved  themselves 
into  a  committee  of  ways  and  means;  for  they 
were  two  well-guarded  young  women,  and  to  en 
gineer  five  hours  of  liberty  was  difficult  to  the 
verge  of  impossibility.  However,  there  is  a 
financial  manoeuvre  known  as  "kiting  checks," 
whereby  A  exchanges  a  check  with  B  and  B 
swaps  with  A  again,  playing  an  imaginary  bal 
ance  against  Time  and  the  Clearing  House;  and 
by  a  similar  scheme,  which  an  acute  student  of 
social  ethics  has  called  "kiting  calls,"  the  girls 
found  that  they  could  make  Saturday  afternoon 
their  own,  without  one  glance  from  the  watchful 
eyes  of  Esther's  mother  or  Louise's  aunt — Lou 
ise  had  only  an  aunt  to  reckon  with. 

"And,  oh,  Esther!"  cried  the  bolder  of  the 
conspirators, ' '  I  Ve  thought  of  a  trunk — of  course 
I've  got  to  have  a  trunk,  or  she  would  ask  me 
where  it  was,  and  I  couldn't  tell  her  a  fib.  Don't 
you  remember  the  French  maid  who  died  three 
days  after  she  came  here?  Her  trunk  is  up  in 
the  store-room  still,  and  I  don't  believe  anybody 
will  ever  come  for  it — it's  been  there  seven  years 
now.  Let's  go  up  and  look  at  it." 

The  girls  romped  upstairs  to  the  great  unused 
upper  story,  where  heaps  of  household  rubbish 


10  THE   TENOR 

obscured  the  dusty  half-windows.  In  a  corner, 
behind  Louise's  baby  chair  and  an  unfashionable 
hat-rack  of  the  old  steering-wheel  pattern,  they 
found  the  little  brown-painted  tin  trunk,  corded 
up  with  clothes-line. 

"Louise!"  said  Esther,  hastily,  "what  did 
you  tell  her  your  name  was?" 

"I  just  said  'Louise'." 

Esther  pointed  to  the  name  painted  on  the 
trunk, 

LOUISE  LEVY 

"It  is  the  hand  of  Providence,"  she  said. 
"Somehow,  now,  I'm  sure  you're  quite  right  to 
go." 

And  neither  of  these  conscientious  young  ladies 
reflected  for  one  minute  on  the  discomfort  which 
might  be  occasioned  to  Madame  Remy  by  the 
defection  of  her  new  servant  a  half -hour  before 
dinner-time  on  Saturday  night. 

•  ••••••• 

"Oh,  child,  it's  you,  is  it?"  was  Mme.  Remy's 
greeting  at  twelve  o'clock  on  Saturday.  "Well, 
you're  punctual — and  you  look  clean.  Now,  are 
you  going  to  break  my  dishes  or  are  you  going 
to  steal  my  rings?  "Well,  we'll  find  out  soon 
enough.  Your  trunk's  up  in  your  room.  Go  up 
to  the  servants'  quarters — right  at  the  top  of 
those  stairs  there.  Ask  for  the  room  that  be 
longs  to  apartment  11.  You  are  to  room  with 
their  girl." 

Louise  was  glad  of  a  moment's  respite.     She 


THE   TENOR  II 

had  taken  the  plunge;  she  was  determined  to  go 
through  to  the  end.  But  her  heart  would  beat 
and  her  hands  would  tremble.  She  climbed  up 
six  flights  of  winding  stairs,  and  found  herself 
weak  and  dizzy  when  she  reached  the  top  and 
gazed  around  her.  She  was  in  a  great  half-story 
room,  eighty  feet  square.  The  most  of  it  was 
filled  with  heaps  of  old  furniture  and  bedding, 
rolls  of  carpet,  of  canvas,  of  oilcloth,  and  odds 
and  ends  of  discarded  or  unused  household  gear 
— the  dust  thick  over  all.  A  little  space  had 
been  left  around  three  sides,  to  give  access  to 
three  rows  of  cell-like  rooms,  in  each  of  which 
the  ceiling  sloped  from  the  very  door  to  a  tiny 
window  at  the  level  of  the  floor.  In  each  room 
was  a  bed,  a  bureau  that  served  for  wash-stand, 
a  small  looking-glass,  and  one  or  two  trunks. 
Women's  dresses  hung  on  the  whitewashed  walls. 
She  found  No.  11,  threw  off,  desperately,  her  hat 
and  jacket,  and  sunk  down  on  the  little  brown 
tin  trunk,  all  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

"Hello,"  called  a  cheery  voice.  She  looked  up 
and  saw  a  girl  in  a  dirty  calico  dress. 

"  Just  come1?"  inquired  this  person,  with  agree 
able  informality.  She  was  a  good-looking  large 
girl,  with  red  hair  and  bright  cheeks.  She  leaned 
against  the  door-post  and  polished  her  finger 
nails  with  a  little  brush.  Her  hands  were  shapely. 

"Ain't  got  onto  the  stair-climbing  racket  yet, 
eh?  You'll  get  used  to  it.  'Louise  Levy,'  "  she 
read  the  name  on  the  trunk.  "You  don't  look 
like  a  sheeny.  Can't  tell  nothin'  'bout  names, 


12  THE    TENOR 

can  you?  My  name's  Slattery.  You'd  think  I 
was  Irish,  wouldn't  you?  Well,  I'm  straight 
Ne'  York.  I'd  be  dead  before  I  was  Irish.  Born 
here.  Ninth  Ward  an'  next  to  an  engine-house. 
How's  that?  There's  white  Jews,  too.  I  worked 
for  one,  pickin'  sealskins  down  in  Prince  Street. 
Most  took  the  lungs  out  of  me.  But  that  wasn't 
why  I  shook  the  biz.  It  queered  my  hands — see? 
I'm  going  to  be  married  in  the  Fall  to  a  German 
gentleman.  He  ain't  so  Dutch  when  you  know 
him,  though.  He's  a  grocer.  Drivin'  now;  but 
he  buys  out  the  boss  in  the  Fall.  How's  that? 
He's  dead  stuck  on  my  hooks,  an'  I  have  to  keep 
'em  lookin'  good.  I  come  here  because  the  work 
was  light.  I  don't  have  to  work — only  to  be 
doin'  somethin',  see?  Only  got  five  halls  and  the 
lamps.  You  got  a  fam'ly  job,  I  s'pose?  I 
wouldn't  have  that.  I  don't  mind  the  Sooprin- 
tendent;  but  I'd  be  dead  before  I'd  be  bossed  by 
a  woman,  see?  Say,  what  fam'ly  did  you  say 
you  was  with!" 

This  stream  of  talk  had  acted  like  a  nerve-tonic 
on  Louise.  She  was  able  to  answer : 

"M— Mr.  Kemy." 

"Bamy?— oh,  lord!  Got  the  job  with  His  Ton 
sils?  Well,  you  won't  keep  it  long.  They're 
meaner 'n  three  balls,  see?  Eent  their  room  up 
here  and  chip  in  with  eleven.  Their  girls  don't 
never  stay.  Well,  I  got  to  step,  or  the  Sooprin- 
tendent'll  be  borin'  my  ear.  Well — so  long !" 

But  Louise  had  fled  down  the  stairs.  "His 
Tonsils"  rang  in  her  ears.  What  blasphemy! 


THE    TENOR  13 

What  sacrilege!     She  could  scarcely  pretend  to 
listen  to  Mme.  Remy's  first  instructions. 

The  household  ivas  parsimonious.  Louise 
washed  the  caterer's  dishes — he  made  a  reduc 
tion  in  his  price.  Thus  she  learned  that  a  late 
breakfast  took  the  place  of  luncheon.  She  began 
to  feel  what  this  meant.  The  beds  had  been 
made;  but  there  was  work  enough.  She  helped 
Mme.  Remy  to  sponge  a  heap  of  faded  finery — 
her  dresses.  If  they  had  been  his  coats !  Louise 
bent  her  hot  face  over  the  tawdry  silks  and  sat 
ins,  and  clasped  her  parboiled  little  finger-tips 
over  the  wet  sponge.  At  half-past  three  Mme. 
Remy  broke  the  silence. 

"We  must  get  ready  for  Musseer,"  she  said. 
An  ecstatic  joy  filled  Louise's  being.  The  hour 
of  her  reward  was  at  hand. 

Getting  ready  for  "Musseer"  proved  to  be  an 
appalling  process.  First  they  brewed  what  Mme. 
Remy  called  a  "teaze  Ann."  After  the  tisane,  a 
host  of  strange  foreign  drugs  and  cosmetics  were 
marshalled  in  order.  Then  water  was  set  to  heat 
on  a  gas-stove.  Then  a  little  table  was  neatly 
set. 

"Musseer  has  his  dinner  at  half-past  four," 
Madame  explained.  "I  don't  take  mine  till  he's 
laid  down  and  I've  got  him  off  to  the  concert. 
There,  he's  coming  now.  Sometimes  he  comes 
home  pretty  nervous.  If  he's  nervous,  don't  you 
go  and  make  a  fuss,  do  you  hear,  child?" 

The  door  opened,  and  Musseer  entered, 
wrapped  in  a  huge  frogged  overcoat.  There  was 


14  THE    TENOE 

no  doubt  that  he  was  nervous.  He  cast  his 
hat  upon  the  floor,  as  if  he  were  Jove  dashing  a 
thunderbolt.  Fire  flashed  from  his  eyes.  He 
advanced  upon  his  wife  and  thrust  a  newspaper 
in  her  face — a  little  pinky  sheet,  a  notorious 
blackmailing  publication. 

"Zees,"  he  cried,  "is  your  work!" 

"What  is  it,  now,  Hipleet?"  demanded  Mme. 
Eemy. 

"Vot  it  ees!"  shrieked  the  tenor.  "It  ees  ze 
history  of  how  zey  have  heest  me  at  Nice!  It 
ees  all  zair — how  I  have  been  heest — in  zis  sacre 
sheet — in  zis  hankairchif  of  infamy!  And  it  ees 
you  zat  have  told  it  to  zat  devil  of  a  Eastignac — 
traitresse!" 

"Now,  Hipleet,"  pleaded  his  wife,  "if  I  can't 
learn  enough  French  to  talk  with  you,  how  am  I 
going  to  tell  Eastignac  about  your  being  hissed?" 

This  reasoning  silenced  Mr.  Eemy  for  an  in 
stant — an  instant  only. 

"You  vood  have  done  it!"  he  cried,  sticking 
out  his  chin  and  thrusting  his  face  forward. 

"Well,  I  didn't,"  said  Madame,  "and  nobody 
reads  that  thing,  anyway.  Now,  don't  you  mind 
it,  and  let  me  get  your  things  off,  or  you'll  be 
catching  cold." 

Mr.  Eemy  yielded  at  last  to  the  necessity  of 
self-preservation,  and  permitted  his  wife  to  re 
move  his  frogged  overcoat,  and  to  unwind  him 
from  a  system  of  silk  wraps  to  which  the  Gordian 
knot  was  a  slip-noose.  This  done,  he  sat  down 
before  the  dressing-case,  and  Mme.  Eemy,  after 


THE    TENOE  15 

tying  a  bib  around  his  neck,  proceeded  to  dress 
his  hair  and  put  brilliantine  on  his  moustache. 
Her  husband  enlivened  the  operation  by  reading 
from  the  pinky  paper. 

"It  ees  not  gen-air-al-lee  known — zat  zees  dees- 
tin-guished  tenor  vos  heest  on  se  pob-lic  staidj 
at  Nice — in  ze  year — " 

Louise  leaned  against  the  wall,  sick,  faint  and 
frightened,  with  a  strange  sense  of  shame  and 
degradation  at  her  heart.  At  last  the  tenor's 
eye  fell  on  her. 

"Anozzair  eediot?"  he  inquired. 

"She  ain't  very  bright,  Hipleet,"  replied  his 
wife;  "but  I  guess  she'll  do.  Louise,  open  the 
door — there's  the  caterer." 

Louise  placed  the  dishes  upon  the  table  me 
chanically.  The  tenor  sat  himself  at  the  board, 
and  tucked  a  napkin  in  his  neck. 

"And  how  did  the  Benediction  Song  go  this 
afternoon  f ' '  inquired  his  wife. 

"Ze  Benediction?  Ah!  One  encore.  One  on- 
lee.  Zese  pigs  of  Americains.  I  t'row  my  pairls 
biffo*  swine.  Chops  once  more!  You  vant  to 
mordair  me?  Vat  do  zis  mean,  madamef  You 
ar-r-r-re  in  lig  wiz  my  enemies.  All  ze  vorlt  is 
against  ze  ar-r-r-teest ! " 

The  storm  that  followed  made  the  first  seem 
a  zephyr.  The  tenor  exhausted  his  execratory 
vocabulary  in  French  and  English.  At  last,  by 
way  of  a  dramatic  finale,  he  seized  the  plate  of 
chops  and  flung  it  from  him.  He  aimed  at  the 
wall;  but  Frenchmen  do  not  pitch  well.  With  a 


16  THE    TENOR 

ring  and  a  crash,  plate  and  chops  went  through 
the  broad  window-pane.  In  the  moment  of 
stricken  speechlessness  that  followed,  the  sound 
of  the  final  smash  came  softly  up  from  the  side 
walk. 

' '  Ah-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah ! ' ' 

The  tenor  rose  to  his  feet  with  the  howl  of  an 
anguished  hyena. 

''Oh,  good  gracious!"  cried  his  wife;  "he's 
going  to  have  one  of  his  creezes — his  creezes  de 
nare!" 

He  did  have  a  crise  de  nerfs.  "Ten  dollair!" 
he  yelled,  "for  ten  dollair  of  glass!"  He  tore 
his  pomaded  hair;  he  tore  off  his  bib  and  his 
neck-tie,  and  for  three  minutes  without  cessation 
he  shrieked  wildly  and  unintelligibly.  It  was 
possible  to  make  out,  however,  that  "arteest" 
and  "ten  dollair"  were  the  themes  of  his  impro 
visation.  Finally  he  sank  exhausted  into  the 
chair,  and  his  white-faced  wife  rushed  to  his 
side. 

"Louise!"  she  cried,  "get  the  foot- tub  out  of 
the  closet  while  I  spray  his  throat,  or  he  can't 
sing  a  note.  Fill  it  up  with  warm  water — 102 
degrees — there's  the  thermometer — and  bathe  his 
feet." 

Trembling  from  head  to  foot,  Louise  obeyed 
her  orders,  and  brought  the  foot-tub,  full  of 
steaming  water.  Then  she  knelt  down  and  be 
gan  to  serve  the  maestro  for  the  first  time.  She 
took  off  his  shoes.  Then  she  looked  at  his  socks. 
Could  she  do  it? 


THE    TENOR  17 

"Eediot!"  gasped  the  sufferer,  "make  haste! 
I  die!" 

"Hold  your  mouth  open,  dear,"  said  Madame, 
"I  haven't  half  sprayed  you." 

"  Ah  I  you!"  cried  the  tenor.  "Cat!  Devil!  It 
ees  you  zat  have  killed  me!"  And  moved  by  an 
access  of  blind  rage,  he  extended  his  arm,  and 
thrust  his  wife  violently  from  him. 

Louise  rose  to  her  feet,  with  a  hard,  set,  good 
old  New  England  look  on  her  face.  She  lifted  the 
tub  of  water  to  the  level  of  her  breast,  and  then 
she  inverted  it  on  the  tenor's  head.  For  one 
instant  she  gazed  at  the  deluge,  and  at  the  bath 
tub  balanced  on  the  maestro 's  skull  like  a  helmet 
several  sizes  too  large — then  she  fled  like  the 
wind. 

Once  in  the  servants'  quarters,  she  snatched 
her  hat  and  jacket.  From  below  came  mad  yells 
of  rage. 

"I  kill  hare!  give  me  my  knife — give  me  my 
riwolvare!  Au  secours!  Assassin!" 

Miss  Slattery  appeared  in  the  doorway,  still 
polishing  her  nails. 

"What  have  you  done  to  His  Tonsils?"  she 
inquired.  "He's  pretty  hot,  this  trip." 

"How  can  I  get  away  from  here?"  cried 
Louise. 

Miss  Slattery  pointed  to  a  small  door.  Louise 
rushed  down  a  long  stairway — another — and  yet 
others — through  a  great  room  where  there  was  a 
smell  of  cooking  and  a  noise  of  fires — past  white- 
capped  cooks  and  scullions — through  a  long  stone 


18  THE   TENOR 

corridor,  and  out  into  the  street.    She  cried  aloud 
as  she  saw  Esther's  face  at  the  window  of  the 
coupe. 
She  drove  home — cured. 


OWING  TO  THE 

SUDDEN  INDISPOSITION 

OF 

M.  KEMY 
THERE  WILL  BE  NO 

CONCERT 

THIS  EVENING. 

MONEY  EEFUNDED  AT  THE 

Box  OFFICE. 


COL.    BRERETON'S   AUNTY 

THE  pleasant  smell  of  freshly  turned  gar 
den-mould  and  of  young  growing  things 
came  in  through  the  open  window  of  the 
Justice   of  the   Peace.     His   nasturtiums   were 
spreading,  pale  and  weedy — I  could  distinguish 
their  strange,  acrid  scent  from  the  odor  of  the 
rest  of  the  young  vegetation.     The  tips  of  the 
morning-glory  vines,  already  up  their  strings  to 
the  height  of  a  man's  head,  curled  around  the 
window-frame,  and  beckoned  to  me  to  come  out 
and  rejoice  with  them  in  the  freshness  of  the 
mild  June  day.    It  was  pleasant  enough  inside 
the  Justice 's  front  parlor,  with  its  bright  ingrain 
carpet,  its  gilt  clock,  and  its  marble-topped  cen 
tre-table.    But  the  Justice  and  the  five  gentlemen 
who  were  paying  him  a  business  call — although 
it  was  Sunday  morning — looked,  the  whole  half- 
dozen  of  them,  ill  in  accord  with  the  spirit  of  the 
Spring  day.    The  Justice  looked  annoyed.     The 
five  assembled  gentlemen  looked  stern. 

"Well,  as  you  say,"  remarked  the  fat  little 
Justice,  who  was  an  Irishman,  "if  this  divilment 
goes  on — " 

"It's  not  a  question  of  going  on,  Mr.  O'Brien," 
broke  in  Alfred  Winthrop;  "it  has  gone  on  too 
long." 

19 


20  COL.   BKERETON'S   AUNTY 

Alfred  is  a  little  inclined  to  be  arrogant  with 
the  unwinthropian  world;  and,  moreover,  he  was 
rushing  the  season  in  a  very  grand  suit  of  white 
flannels.  He  looked  rather  too  much  of  a  lord 
of  creation  for  a  democratic  community.  An 
tagonism  lit  the  Justice's  eye. 

"I'm  afraid  we've  got  to  do  it,  O'Brien,"  I 
interposed,  hastily.  The  Justice  and  I  are  strong 
political  allies.  He  was  mollified. 

"Well,  well,"  he  assented;  "let's  have  him  up 
and  see  what  he 's  got  to  say  for  himself.  Mike ! " 
he  shouted  out  the  window;  "bring  up  Colonel 
Brereton!" 

Colonel  Brereton  had  appeared  in  our  village 
about  a  year  before  that  Sunday.  Why  he  came, 
whence  he  came,  he  never  deigned  to  say.  But 
he  made  no  secret  of  the  fact  that  he  was  an 
unreconstructed  Southron.  He  had  a  little  money 
when  he  arrived — enough  to  buy  a  tiny  one-story 
house  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  By  vocation 
he  was  a  lawyer,  and,  somehow  or  other,  he 
managed  to  pick  up  enough  to  support  him  in 
his  avocation,  which,  we  soon  found  out,  was 
that  of  village  drunkard.  In  this  capacity  he 
was  a  glorious,  picturesque  and  startling  success. 
Saturated  with  cheap  whiskey,  he  sat  all  day 
long  in  the  barroom  or  on  the  porch  of  the  vil 
lage  groggery,  discoursing  to  the  neighborhood 
loafers  of  the  days  befV  the  wah,  when  he  had 
a  vast  plantation  in  "Firginia" — "and  five  hun 
dred  niggehs,  seh." 

So  long  as  the  Colonel's  excesses  threatened 


COL.   BRERETON'S   AUNTY  21 

only  his  own  liver,  no  one  interfered  with  him. 
But  on  the  night  before  we  called  upon  the  Jus 
tice,  the  Colonel,  having  brooded  long  over  his 
wrongs  at  the  hands  of  the  Yankees,  and  having 
made  himself  a  reservoir  of  cocktails,  decided  to 
enter  his  protest  against  the  whole  system  of 
free  colored  labor  by  cutting  the  liver  out  of 
every  negro  in  the  town;  and  he  had  slightly 
lacerated  Winthrop's  mulatto  coachman  before 
a  delegation  of  citizens  fell  upon  him,  and  finding 
him  unwilling  to  relinquish  his  plan,  placed  him 
for  the  night  in  the  lock-up  in  Squire  O'Brien's 
cellar. 

We  waited  for  the  Colonel.  From  under  our 
feet  suddenly  arose  a  sound  of  scuffling  and 
smothered  imprecations.  A  minute  later,  Mike, 
the  herculean  son  of  the  Justice,  appeared  in  the 
doorway,  bearing  a  very  small  man  hugged  to 
his  breast  as  a  baby  hugs  a  doll. 

"Let  me  down,  seh!"  shouted  the  Colonel. 
Mike  set  him  down,  and  he  marched  proudly  into 
the  room,  and  seated  himself  with  dignity  and 
firmness  on  the  extreme  edge  of  a  chair. 

The  Colonel  was  very  small  indeed  for  a  man 
of  so  much  dignity.  He  could  not  have  been 
more  than  five  foot  one  or  two;  he  was  slender 
— but  his  figure  was  shapely  and  supple.  He 
was  unquestionably  a  handsome  man,  with  fine, 
thin  features  and  an  aquiline  profile — like  a  mini 
ature  Henry  Clay.  His  hair  was  snow-white — 
prematurely,  no  doubt — and  at  the  first  glance 
you  thought  he  was  clean  shaven.  Then  you 


22  COL.  BRERETON'S   AUNTY 

saw  that  there  was  scarcely  a  hair  on  his  cheeks, 
and  that  only  the  finest  imaginable  line  of  snowy 
white  moustaches  curled  down  his  upper  lip.  His 
skin  was  smooth  as  a  baby's  and  of  the  color  of 
old  ivory.  His  teeth,  which  he  was  just  then 
exhibiting  in  a  sardonic  smile,  were  white,  small, 
even.  But  if  he  was  small,  his  carriage  was 
large,  and  military.  There  was  something  mili 
tary,  too,  about  his  attire.  He  wore  a  high  col 
lar,  a  long  blue  frock  coat,  and  tight,  light  gray 
trousers  with  straps.  That  is,  the  coat  had  once 
been  blue,  the  trousers  once  light  gray,  but  they 
were  now  of  many  tints  and  tones,  and,  at  that 
exact  moment,  they  had  here  and  there  certain 
peculiar  high  lights  of  whitewash. 

The  Colonel  did  not  wait  to  be  arraigned. 
Sweeping  his  black,  piercing  eye  over  our  little 
group,  he  arraigned  its. 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  with  keen  irony  in  his  tone, 
"I  reckon  you  think  you've  done  a  right  smart 
thing,  getting  the  Southern  gentleman  in  a  hole? 
A  pro-dee-gious  fine  thing,  I  reckon,  since  it's 
kept  you  away  from  chu'ch.  Baptis'  church,  I 
believe!"  This  was  to  poor  Canfield,  who  was 
suspected  of  having  been  of  that  communion  in 
his  youth,  and  of  being  much  ashamed  of  it 
after  his  marriage  to  an  aristocratic  Episcopa 
lian.  "Nice  Sunday  mo'ning  to  worry  a  South 
ern  gentleman!  Gentleman  who's  owned  a  plan 
tation  that  you  could  stick  this  hyeh  picayune 
town  into  one  co'neh  of!  Owned  mo'  niggehs 
than  you  eveh  saw.  Robbed  of  his  land  and  his 


COL.   BRERETON'S   AUNTY  23 

niggehs  by  you  Yankee  gentlemen.  Drinks  a  lit 
tle  wine  to  make  him  fo'get  what  he's  suffehed. 
Gets  ovehtaken.  Tries  to  avenge  an  insult  to  his 
honah.  Put  him  in  a  felon's  cell  and  whitewash 
his  gyarments.  And  now  you  come  hyeh — you 
come  hyeh—  '  here  his  eye  fell  with  deep  disap 
proval  upon  Winthrop's  white  flannels — "you 
come  hyeh  in  youh  underclothes,  and  you  want 
to  have  him  held  fo'  Special  Sessions." 

"You  are  mistaken,  Colonel  Brereton,"  Win- 
throp  interposed;  "if  we  can  have  your  prom 
ise—" 

"I  will  promise  you  nothing,  seh!"  thundered 
the  Colonel,  who  had  a  voice  like  a  church-organ, 
whenever  he  chose  to  use  it;  "I  will  make  no 
conventions  with  you!  I  will  put  no  restrictions 
on  my  right  to  defend  my  honah.  Put  me  in 
youh  felon's  cell.  I  will  rot  in  youh  infehnal 
dungeons;  but  I  will  make  no  conventions  with 
you.  You  can  put  me  in  striped  breeches,  but 
you  cyan't  put  my  honah  in  striped  breeches!" 

"That  settles  it,"  said  the  Justice. 

"And  all,"  continued  the  Colonel,  oratorically, 
"and  all  this  hyeh  fuss  and  neglect  of  youh  re 
ligious  duties,  fo'  one  of  the  cheapest  and  most 
o'nery  niggehs  I  eveh  laid  eyes  on.  Why,  I 
wouldn't  have  given  one  hundred  dollahs  fo'  that 
niggeh  befo'  the  wah.  No,  seh,  I  give  you  my 
wo'd,  that  niggeh  ain't  wo'th  ninety  dollahs!" 

"Mike!"  said  the  Justice,  significantly.  The 
Colonel  arose  promptly,  to  insure  a  voluntary 
exit.  He  bowed  low  to  Winthrop. 


24  COL.   BBEKETON'S   AUNTY 

" Allow  me  to  hope,  sell,"  he  said,  "that  you 
won't  catch  cold."  And  with  one  lofty  and  com 
prehensive  salute  he  marched  haughtily  back  to 
his  dungeon,  followed  by  the  towering  Mike. 

The  Justice  sighed.  An  elective  judiciary  has 
its  trials,  like  the  rest  of  us.  It  is  hard  to  com 
mit  a  voter  of  your  own  party  for  Special  Ses 
sions.  However — "I'll  drive  him  over  to  Court 
in  the  morning,"  said  the  little  Justice. 


I  was  sitting  on  my  verandah  that  afternoon, 
reading.  Hearing  my  name  softly  spoken,  I 
looked  up  and  saw  the  largest  and  oldest  negress 
I  had  ever  met.  She  was  at  least  six  feet  tall, 
well-built  but  not  fat,  full  black,  with  carefully 
dressed  gray  hair.  I  knew  at  once  from  her  neat 
dress,  her  well-trained  manner,  the  easy  defer 
ence  of  the  curtsey  she  dropped  me,  that  she 
belonged  to  the  class  that  used  to  be  known  as 
"house  darkeys" — in  contradistinction  to  the 
field  hands. 

"I  understand,  seh,"  she  said,  in  a  gentle,  low 
voice,  "that  you  gentlemen  have  got  Cunnle 
Bre'eton  jailed?" 

She  had  evidently  been  brought  up  among  edu 
cated  Southerners,  for  her  grammar  was  good 
and  her  pronunciation  correct,  according  to 
Southern  standards.  Only  once  or  twice  did  she 
drop  into  negro  talk. 

I  assented. 

"How  much  will  it  be,  seh,  to  get  him  out?" 


COL.   BRERETON'S   AUNTY  25 

She  produced  a  fat  roll  of  twenty  and  fifty  dollar 
bills.  "I  do  fo'  Cunnle  Bre'eton,"  she  explained: 
"I  have  always  done  fo'  him.  I  was  his  Mammy 
when  he  was  a  baby." 

I  made  her  sit  down — when  she  did  there  was 
modest  deprecation  in  her  attitude — and  I  tried 
to  explain  the  situation  to  her. 

"You  may  go  surety  for  Colonel  Brereton,"  I 
said;  "but  he  is  certain  to  repeat  the  offense." 

"No,  seh,"  she  replied,  in  her  quiet,  firm  tone; 
"the  Cunnle  won't  make  any  trouble  when  I'm 
here  to  do  fo'  him." 

"You  were  one  of  his  slaves'?" 

"No,  seh.  Cunnle  Bre'eton  neveh  had  any 
slaves,  seh.  His  father,  Majah  Bre'eton,  he  had 
slaves  one  time,  I  guess,  but  when  the  Cunnle 
was  bo  'n,  he  was  playing  kyards  f  o '  a  living,  and 
he  had  only  me.  When  the  Cunnle 's  mother 
died,  Majah  Bre'eton  he  went  to  Mizzoura,  and 
he  put  the  baby  in  my  ahms,  and  he  said  to  me, 
'Sabrine,'  he  sez,  'you  do  fo'  him.'  And  I've 
done  fo'  him  eveh  since.  Sometimes  he  gets 
away  from  me,  and  then  he  gets  kind  o*  wild.  He 
was  in  Sandusky  a  year,  and  in  Chillicothe  six 
months,  and  he  was  in  Tiffin  once,  and  one  time 
in  a  place  in  the  state  of  Massachusetts — I  dis- 
remembeh  the  name.  This  is  the  longest  time  he 
eveh  got  away  from  me.  But  I  always  find  him, 
and  then  he's  all  right." 

"But  you  have  to  deal  with  a  violent  man." 

"The  Cunnle  won't  be  violent  with  me,  seh." 

"But  you're  getting  old,  Aunty — how  old!" 


26  COL.   BRERETON'S   AUNTY 

"I  kind  o'  lost  count  since  I  was  seventy-one, 
seh.  But  I'm  right  spry,  yet." 

"Well,  my  good  woman,"  I  said,  decisively, 
"I  can't  take  the  responsibility  of  letting  the 
Colonel  go  at  large  unless  you  give  me  some  bet 
ter  guarantee  of  your  ability  to  restrain  him. 
What  means  have  you  of  keeping  him  in  hand  ? ' ' 

She  hesitated  a  long  time,  smoothing  the  folds 
of  her  neat  alpaca  skirt  with  her  strong  hands. 
Then  she  said: 

"Well,  seh,  I  wouldn't  have  you  say  anything 
about  it,  fV  feah  of  hunting  Cunnle  Bre'eton's 
feelings;  but  when  he  gets  that  way,  I  jes'  nach- 
ully  tuhn  him  up  and  spank  him.  I've  done  it 
eveh  since  he  was  a  baby,"  she  continued  apolo 
getically,  "and  it's  the  only  way.  But  you  won't 
say  anything  about  it,  seh  ?  The  Cunnle 's  power 
ful  sensitive." 

I  wrote  a  brief  note  to  the  Justice.  I  do  not 
know  what  legal  formalities  he  dispensed  with; 
but  that  afternoon  the  Colonel  was  free.  Aunt 
Sabrine  took  him  home,  and  he  \vent  to  bed  for 
two  days  while  she  washed  his  clothes.  The  next 
week  he  appeared  in  a  complete  new  outfit — in 

cut  and  color  the  counterpart  of  its  predecessor. 
•        ••••••• 

Here  began  a  new  era  for  the  Colonel.  He  was 
no  longer  the  town  drunkard.  Aunty  Sabrine 
"allowanced"  him — one  cocktail  in  the  "mo'n- 
ing";  a  "ho'n"  at  noon,  and  one  at  night.  On 
this  diet  he  was  a  model  of  temperance.  If  occa 
sionally  he  essayed  a  drinking  bout,  Aunty  Sa- 


COL.   BRERETON'S   AUNTY  27 

brine  came  after  him  at  eve,  and  led  him  home. 
From  my  window  I  sometimes  saw  the  steady 
big  figure  and  the  wavering  little  one  going  home 
over  the  crest  of  the  hill,  equally  black  in  their 
silhouettes  against  the  sunset  sky. 

What  happened  to  the  Colonel  we  knew  not. 
No  man  saw  him  for  two  days.  Then  he  emerged 
with  unruffled  dignity.  The  two  always  main 
tained  genuine  Southern  relations.  He  called 
her  his  damn  black  nigger — and  would  have 
killed  any  man  who  spoke  ill  of  her.  She  treated 
him  with  the  humble  and  deferential  familiarity 
of  a  "mammy"  toward  "young  mahse." 

For  herself,  Aunty  Sabrine  won  the  hearts  of 
the  town.  She  was  an  ideal  washerwoman,  an 
able  temporary  cook  in  domestic  interregna,  a 
tender  and  wise  nurse,  and  a  genius  at  jam  and 
jellies.  The  Colonel,  too,  made  money  in  his  line, 
and  put  it  faithfully  into  the  common  fund. 

In  March  of  the  next  year,  I  was  one  of  a 
Reform  Town  Committee,  elected  to  oust  the 
usual  local  ring.  We  discharged  the  inefficient 
Town  Counsel,  who  had  neglected  our  interests 
in  a  lot  of  suits  brought  by  swindling  road-con 
tractors.  Aunty  Sabrine  came  to  me,  and  sol 
emnly  nominated  Colonel  Brereton  for  the  post. 
"He  is  sho'ly  a  fine  loyyeh,"  she  said. 

I  know  not  whether  it  was  the  Great  American 
sense  of  humor,  or  the  Great  American  sense  of 
fairness,  but  we  engaged  the  Colonel,  condition 
ally. 

He  was  a  positive,  a  marvelous,  an  incredible 


28  COL.  BRERETON'S  AUNTY 

success,  and  he  won  every  snit.  Perhaps  he  did 
not  know  much  law;  but  he  was  the  man  of  men 
for  country  judges  and  juries.  Nothing  like  his 
eloquence  had  ever  before  been  heard  in  the 
county.  He  argued,  he  cajoled,  he  threatened, 
he  pleaded,  he  thundered,  he  exploded,  he  con 
fused,  he  blazed,  he  fairly  dazzled — for  silence 
stunned  you  when  the  Colonel  ceased  to  speak, 
as  the  lightning  blinds  your  eyes  long  after  it 
has  vanished. 

The  Colonel  was  utterly  incapable  of  seeing 
any  but  his  own  side  of  the  case.  I  remember  a 
few  of  his  remarks  concerning  Finnegan,  the 
contractor,  who  was  suing  for  $31.27  payments 
withheld. 

"Fohty  yahds!"  the  Colonel  roared:  "fohty 
yahds!  This  hyeh  man  Finnegan,  this  hyeh 
cock-a-doodle-doo,  he  goes  along  this  hyeh  road, 
and  he  casts  his  eye  oveh  this  hyeh  excavation, 
and  he  comes  hyeh  and  sweahs  it's  fohty  yahds 
good  measure.  Does  he  take  a  tape  measure 
and  measure  it?  NO!  Does  he  even  pace  it 
off  with  those  hyeh  corkscrew  legs  of  his  that 
he 's  trying  to  hide  under  his  chaiah  ?  NO ! !  He 
says,  'I'm  Finnegan,  and  this  hyeh's  fohty 
yahds,'  and  off  he  sashays  up  the  hill,  wonder 
ing  wheah  Finnegan 's  going  to  bring  up  when 
he's  walked  off  the  topmost  peak  of  the  snow- 
clad  Himalayas  of  human  omniscience!  And 
this  hyeh  man,  this  hyeh  insult  to  humanity  in 
a  papeh  collah,  he  comes  hyeh,  to  this  august 
tribunal,  and  he  asks  you,  gentlemen  of  the 


COL.   BRERETON'S   AUNTY  29 

jury,  to  let  him  rob  you  of  the  money  you  have 
earned  in  the  sweat  of  youh  brows,  to  take  the 
bread  out  of  the  mouths  of  the  children  whom 
youh  patient  and  devoted  wives  have  bohne  to 
you  in  pain  and  anguish — but  I  say  to  you,  gen- 
tel-men — (suddenly  exploding)  HIS  PAPEH 
COLLAH  SHALL  ROAST  IN  HADES  BE- 
FO'  I  WILL  BE  A  PAHTY  TO  THIS  HYEH 
INFAMY!" 

Finnegan  was  found  in  hiding  in  his  cellar 
when  his  counsel  came  to  tell  him  that  he  could 
not  collect  his  $31.27.  "Bedad,  is  that  all?"  he 
gasped:  "I  fought  I'd  get  six  mont's." 

People  flocked  from  miles  about  to  hear  the 
Colonel.  Recalcitrant  jurymen  were  bribed  to 
service  by  the  promise  of  a  Brereton  case  on  the 
docket.  His  performances  were  regarded  in  the 
light  of  a  free  show,  and  a  verdict  in  his  favor 
was  looked  upon  as  a  graceful  gratuity. 

He  made  money — and  he  gave  it  meekly  to 
Aunty  Sabrine. 


It  was  the  night  of  the  great  blizzard ;  but  there 
was  no  sign  of  cold  or  wind  when  I  looked  out, 
half-an-hour  after  midnight,  before  closing  my 
front  door.  I  heard  the  drip  of  water  from  the 
trees,  I  saw  a  faint  mist  rising  from  the  melting 
snow.  At  the  foot  of  my  lawn  I  dimly  saw  the 
Colonel's  familiar  figure  marching  homeward 
from  some  political  meeting  preliminary  to  Tues 
day's  election.  His  form  was  erect,  his  step 


30  COL.  BEEEETON'S   AUNTY 

steady.  He  swung  his  little  cane  and  whistled 
as  he  walked.  I  was  proud  of  the  Colonel. 

An  hour  later  the  storm  was  upon  us.  By 
noon  of  Monday,  Alfred  "Winthrop's  house,  two 
hundred  yards  away,  might  as  well  have  been 
two  thousand,  so  far  as  getting  to  it,  or  even 
seeing  it,  was  concerned.  Tuesday  morning  the 
snow  had  stopped,  and  we  looked  out  over  a  still 
and  shining  deluge  with  sparkling  fringes  above 
the  blue  hollows  of  its  frozen  waves.  Across  it 
roared  an  icy  wind,  bearing  almost  invisible  dia 
mond  dust  to  fill  irritated  eyes  and  throats.  The 
election  was  held  that  day.  The  result  was  to  be 
expected.  All  the  "hard"  citizens  were  at  the 
polls.  Most  of  the  reformers  were  stalled  in 
railroad  trains.  The  Eeform  Ticket  failed  of 
re-election,  and  Colonel  Brereton's  term  of  office 
was  practically  at  an  end. 

I  was  outdoors  most  of  the  day,  and  that  night, 
when  I  awoke  about  three  o'clock,  suddenly  and 
with  a  shock,  thinking  I  had  heard  Aunty  Sa- 
brine's  voice  crying:  "Cunnle!  wheah  are  you, 
Cunnle?"  my  exhausted  brain  took  it  for  the 
echo  of  a  dream.  I  must  have  dozed  for  an  hour 
before  I  sprang  up  with  a  certainty  in  my  mind 
that  I  had  heard  her  voice  in  very  truth.  Then 
I  hurried  on  my  clothes,  and  ran  to  Alfred  Win 
throp's.  He  looked  incredulous;  but  he  got  into 
his  boots  like  a  man.  We  found  Aunty  Sabrine, 
alive  but  unconscious,  on  the  crest  of  the  hill. 
When  we  had  secured  an  asylum  for  her,  we 
searched  for  the  Colonel.  The  next  day  we 


COL.   BRERETON'S   AUNTY  31 

learned  that  he  had  heard  the  news  of  the  elec 
tion  and  had  boarded  a  snow-clearing  train  that 
was  returning  to  the  Junction. 

It  was  a  week  before  Aunty  Sabrine  recovered. 
When  I  asked  her  if  she  was  going  to  look  for 
the  Colonel,  she  answered  with  gentle  resigna 
tion: 

"No,  seh.  I'm  'most  too  old.  I'll  stay  hyeh, 
wheah  he  knows  wheah  to  find  me.  He'll  come 
afteh  me,  sho'." 

Sixteen  months  passed,  and  he  did  not  come. 
Then,  one  evening,  a  Summer  walk  took  me  by 
the  little  house.  I  heard  a  voice  I  could  not 
forget. 

"Hyeh,  you  black  niggeh,  get  along  with  that 
suppeh,  or  I  come  in  theah  and  cut  youh  damn 
haid  off!" 

Looking  up,  I  saw  Colonel  Brereton,  a  little 
the  worse  for  wear,  seated  on  the  snake  fence. 
No  ....  he  was  not  seated;  he  was  hitched  on 
by  the  crook  of  his  knees,  his  toes  braced  against 
the  inside  of  the  lower  rail.  His  coat-tails  hung 
in  the  vacant  air. 

He  descended,  a  little  stiffly,  I  thought,  and 
greeted  me  cordially,  with  affable  dignity.  His 
manner  somehow  implied  that  it  was  /  who  had 
been  away. 

He  insisted  on  my  coming  into  his  front  yard 
and  sitting  down  on  the  bench  by  the  house, 
while  he  condescendingly  and  courteously  in 
quired  after  the  health  of  his  old  friends  and 


32  COL.   BREBETON'S   AUNTY 

neighbors.  I  stayed  until  supper  was  announced. 
The  Colonel  was  always  the  soul  of  hospitality; 
but  on  this  occasion  he  did  not  ask  me  to  join 
him.  And  I  reflected,  as  I  went  away,  that  al 
though  he  had  punctiliously  insisted  on  my  sit 
ting  down,  the  Colonel  had  remained  standing 
during  our  somewhat  protracted  conversation. 


A    ROUND-UP 
I 

WHEN  Bhodora  Boyd— Khodora  Pen- 
nington  that  was— died  in  her  little 
house,  with  no  one  near  her  but  one 
old  maid  who  loved  her,  the  best  society  of  the 
little  city  of  Trega  Falls  indulged  in  more  or 
less  complacent  reminiscence. 

Except  to  Miss  Wimple,  the  old  maid,  Khodora 
had  been  of  no  importance  at  all  in  Trega  for 
ten  long  years,  and  yet  she  had  once  given  Trega 
society  the  liveliest  year  it  had  ever  known.  (I 
should  tell  you  that  Trega  people  never  men 
tioned  the  Falls  in  connection  with  Trega.  Trega 
was  too  old  to  admit  any  indebtedness  to  the 
Falls.) 

Ehodora  Pennington  came  to  Trega  with  her 
invalid  mother  as  the  guest  of  her  uncle,  the 
Commandant  at  the  Fort — for  Trega  was  a  gar 
rison  town.  She  was  a  beautiful  girl.  I  do  not 
mean  a  pretty  girl:  there  were  pretty  girls  in 
Trega — several  of  them.  She  was  beautiful  as 
the  Queen  of  Sheba  was  beautiful — grand,  per 
fect,  radiantly  tawny  of  complexion,  without  a 
flaw  or  a  failing  in  her  pulchritude — almost  too 
fine  a  being  for  family  use,  except  that  she  had 
plenty  of  hot  woman's  blood  in  her  veins,  and 

33 


34  A   ROUND-UP 

was  an  accomplished,  delightful,  impartial  flirt. 

All  the  men  turned  to  her  with  such  prompt 
unanimity  that  all  the  girls  of  Trega's  best  soci 
ety  joined  hands  in  one  grand  battle  for  their 
prospective  altars  and  hearths.  From  the  June 
day  when  Ehodora  came,  to  the  Ash  Wednesday 
of  the  next  year  when  her  engagement  was  an 
nounced,  there  was  one  grand  battle,  a  dozen 
girls  with  wealth  and  social  position  and  knowl 
edge  of  the  ground  to  help  them,  all  pitted 
against  one  garrison  girl,  with  not  so  much  as  a 
mother  to  back  her — Mrs.  Pennington  being 
hopelessly  and  permanently  on  the  sick-list. 

Trega  girls  who  had  never  thought  of  doing 
more  than  wait  at  their  leisure  for  the  local 
young  men  to  marry  them  at  their  leisure  now 
went  in  for  accomplishments  of  every  sort.  They 
rode,  they  drove,  they  danced  new  dances,  they 
read  Browning  and  Herbert  Spencer,  they  sang, 
they  worked  hard  at  archery  and  lawn-tennis, 
they  rowed  and  sailed  and  fished,  and  some  of 
the  more  desperate  even  went  shooting  in  the 
Fall,  and  in  the  Winter  played  billiards  and — 
penny  ante.  Thus  did  they,  in  the  language  of 
a  somewhat  cynical  male  observer,  back  Accom 
plishments  against  Beauty. 

The  Shakspere  Club  and  the  Lake  Picnic, 
which  had  hitherto  divided  the  year  between 
them,  were  submerged  in  the  flood  of  social  en 
tertainments.  Balls  and  parties  followed  one  an 
other.  Trega's  square  stone  houses  were  lit  up 
night  after  night,  and  the  broad  moss-grown 


A   BOUND-UP  35 

gardens  about  them  were  made  trim  and  pre 
sentable,  and  Chinese  lanterns  turned  them  into 
a  fairy-land  for  young  lovers. 

It  was  a  great  year  for  Trega!  The  city  had 
been  dead,  commercially,  ever  since  the  New  York 
Central  Eailroad  had  opened  up  the  great  West ; 
but  the  unprecedented  flow  of  champagne  and 
Apollinaris  actually  started  a  little  business 
boom,  based  on  the  inferable  wealth  of  Trega, 
and  two  or  three  of  Trega 's  remaining  firms 
went  into  bankruptcy  because  of  the  boom.  And 
Ehodora  Pennington  did  it  all. 

Have  you  ever  seen  the  end  of  a  sham-fight? 
You  have  been  shouting  and  applauding,  and 
wasting  enough  enthusiasm  for  a  football  match. 
And  now  it  is  all  finished,  and  nothing  has  been 
done,  and  you  go  home  somewhat  ashamed  of 
yourself,  and  glad  only  that  the  blue-coated  par 
ticipants  must  feel  more  ashamed  of  themselves; 
and  the  smell  of  the  villainous  saltpetre,  that 
waked  the  Berserker  in  your  heart  an  hour  ago, 
is  now  noisome  and  disgusting,  and  makes  you 
cough  and  sneeze. 

Even  so  did  the  girls  of  Trega 's  best  society 
look  each  in  the  face  of  the  other,  when  Ash 
Wednesday  ended  that  nine  months  of  riot,  and 
ask  of  each  other,  "What  has  it  all  been  about?" 

True,  there  were  nine  girls  engaged  to  be  mar 
ried,  and  engagement  meant  marriage  in  Trega. 
Alma  Lyle  was  engaged  to  Dexter  Townsend, 
Mary  Waite  to  John  Lang,  Winifred  Peters  to 
McCullom  Mclntosh,  Ellen  Humphreys  to  George 


36  A   EOUND-UP 

Lister,  Laura  Visscher  to  William  Jans  (Oranje 
boven! — Dutch  blood  stays  Dutch),  Millicent 
Smith  to  Milo  Smith,  her  cousin,  Olive  Cregier 
to  Aleck  Sloan,  Aloha  Jones  (niece  of  a  Sand 
wich  Islands  missionary)  to  Parker  Hall,  and 
Ehodora  Pennington  to  Charley  Boyd. 

But  all  of  these  matches,  save  the  last,  would 
have  been  made  in  the  ordinary  course  of  things. 
The  predestination  of  propinquity  would  have 
settled  that.  And  even  if  Ellen  Humphreys  had 
married  John  Lang  instead  of  George  Lister, 
and  George  Lister  had  wedded  Mary  Waite — 
why,  there  would  have  been  no  great  difference 
to  admire  or  to  deplore.  The  only  union  of  the 
nine  which  came  as  a  surprise  to  the  community 
was  the  engagement  of  B-hodora  to  Charley  Boyd. 
The  beauty  of  the  season  had  picked  up  the  one 
crooked  stick  in  the  town — a  dissolute,  ne'er-do- 
well  hanger-on  of  Trega 's  best  society,  who  would 
never  have  seen  a  dinner-card  if  he  had  not 
been  a  genius  at  amateur  theatricals,  an  artist  on 
the  banjo,  and  a  half-bred  Adonis. 

There  the  agony  ended  for  the  other  girls,  and 
there  it  began  for  Ehodora  Boyd.  In  less  than 
a  year,  Boyd  had  deserted  her.  The  Command 
ant  was  transferred  to  the  Pacific  Coast.  Eho 
dora  moved,  with  her  mother,  bed-ridden  now, 
into  a  little  house  in  the  unfashionable  outskirts 
of  Trega.  There  she  nursed  the  mother  until 
the  poor  bed-ridden  old  lady  died.  Ehodora 
supported  them  both  by  teaching  music  and 
French  at  the  Trega  Seminary,  down  by  the 


A   KOUND-UP  37 

Falls.  Morning  and  evening  she  went  out  and 
back  on  that  weary,  jingling  horse-car  line.  She 
received  the  annual  visits  that  her  friends  paid 
her,  inspired  by  something  between  courtesy  and 
charity,  with  her  old  stately  simplicity  and  im 
perturbable  calm;  and  no  one  of  them  could  feel 
sure  that  she  was  conscious  of  their  triumph  or 
of  her  degradation.  And  she  kept  the  best  part 
of  her  stately  beauty  to  the  very  last.  In  any 
other  town  she  would  have  been  taught  what 
divorce-courts  were  made  for;  but  Trega  society 
was  Episcopalian,  and  that  communion  is  health 
ily  and  conservatively  monogamous. 

And  so  Rhodora  Boyd,  that  once  was  Bhodora 
Pennington,  died  in  her  little  house,  and  her  pet 
old  maid  closed  her  eyes.  And  there  was  an 
end  of  Bhodora.  Not  quite  an  end,  though. 


n 

SCENE. — The  Public  Library  of  Trega.  MRS. 
GEORGE  LISTER  and  MRS.  JOHN  LANG  are 
seated  in  the  Rotunda.  MR.  LIBRIVER,  the 
Librarian,  advances  to  them  with  books  in 
his  hands. 

MRS.  LISTER. — Ah,  here  comes  Mr.  Libriver,  with 
my  " Intellectual  Life."  Thank  you,  Mr.  Libri 
ver — you  are  always  so  kind! 

MRS.  LANG. — And  Mr.  Libriver  has  brought  me 
my  "Status  of  Woman."  Oh,  thank  you,  Mr. 
Libriver. 

MR.  LIBRIVER,  a  thin  young  man  in  a  linen  duster, 
retires,  blushing. 

MRS.  LISTER. — Mr.  Libriver  does  so  appreciate 
women  who  are  free  from  the  bondage  of  the 
novel.  Did  you  hear  about  poor  Bhodora's 
funeral  ? 

MRS.  LANG  (with  a  sweeping  grasp  at  the  intel 
lectual  side  of  the  conversation). — Oh,  I  de 
spise  love-stories.  In  the  church?  Oh,  yes,  I 
heard.  (Sweetly.)  Dr.  Homly  told  me.  Doesn't 
it  seem  just  a  little — ostentatious? 

MRS.  LISTER. — Ostentatious — but,  do  you  know, 
my  dear,  there  are  to  be  eight  pall-bearers! 

MRS.  LANG  (turning  defeat  into  victory). — No,  I 
did  not  know.  I  don't  suppose  that  ridiculous 
old  maid,  that  Miss  Wimple,  who  seems  to  be 
conducting  the  affair,  dared  to  tell  that  to 
Dr.  Homly.  And  who  are  they? 

38 


A   ROUND-UP  39 

MRS.  LISTER  (with  exceeding  sweetness). — Oh,  I 
don't  know,  dear.  Only  I.  met  Mr.  Townsend, 
and  he  told  me  that  Dr.  Homly  had  just  told 
him  that  he  was  one  of  the  eight. 

MRS.  LANG. — Dexter  Townsend!  Why,  it's  scan 
dalous.  Everybody  knows  that  he  proposed 
to  her  three  times  and  that  she  threw  him 
over.  It's  an  insult  to — to — 

MRS.  LISTER. — To  poor  dear  Alma  Townsend.  I 
quite  agree  with  you.  I  should  like  to  know 
how  she  feels — if  she  understands  what  it 
means. 

MRS.  LANG. — Well,  if  I  were  in  her  place— 

Enter  MRS.  DEXTER  TOWNSEND, 
MRS.  LANG. 


MRS.  LISTER. 

MRS.  TOWNSEND. — Why,  Ellen!  Why,  Mary! 
Oh,  I'm  so  glad  to  meet  you  both.  I  want 
you  to  lunch  with  me  to-morrow  at  one  o'clock. 
I  do  so  hate  to  be  left  alone.  And  poor  Kho- 
dora  Pennington — Mrs.  Boyd,  I  mean — her 
funeral  is  at  noon,  and  our  three  male  pro 
tectors  will  have  to  go  to  the  cemetery,  and 
Mr.  Townsend  is  just  going  to  take  a  cold 
bite  before  he  goes,  and  so  I'm  left  to  lunch — 

MRS.  LANG  (coldly). — I  don't  think  Mr.  Lang 
will  go  to  the  cemetery — 

MRS.  LISTER. — There  is  no  reason  why  Mr.  Lis 
ter — 


40  A   ROUND-UP 

MRS.  TOWNSEND. — But,  don't  you  know? — They're 
all  to  be  pall-bearers!  They  can't  refuse,  of 
course. 

MRS.  LANG  (icily). — Oh,  no,  certainly  not. 

MRS.  LISTER  (beloiv  zero). — I  suppose  it  is  an 
unavoidable  duty. 

MRS.  LANG. — Alma,  is  that  your  old  Surah  ?  What 
did  you  do  to  it? 

MRS.  LISTER. — They  do  dye  things  so  wonder 
fully  nowadays! 


SCENE. — A  Verandah  in  front  of  MR.  McCuLLOM 
MC!NTOSH'S  house.  MRS.  McCuLLOM  MC!N- 
TOSH  seated,  with  fancy  work.  To  her,  enter 
MR.  WILLIAM  JANS  and  MR.  MILO  SMITH. 

MRS.  MclNTOSH  (with  effusion). — Oh,  Mr.  Jans, 
I'm  so  delighted  to  see  you!  And  Mr.  Smith, 
too!  I  never  expect  to  see  you  busy  men  at 
this  time  in  the  afternoon.  And  how  is  Laura  ? 
— and  Millicent?  Now  don't  tell  me  that  you've 
come  to  say  that  you  can't  go  fishing  with  Mr. 
Mclntosh  to-morrow!  He'll  be  so  disap 
pointed  ! 

MR.  JANS. — Well,  the  fact  is — 

MRS.  MclNTOSH. — You  haven't  been  invited  to 
be  one  of  poor  Khodora  Boyd's  pall-bearers, 
have  you?  That  would  be  too  absurd.  They 
say  she's  asked  a  regular  party  of  her  old 
conquests.  Mr.  Libriver  just  passed  here  and 
told  me — Mr.  Lister  and  John  Lang  and  Dex 
ter  Townsend — 


A   ROUND-UP  41 

MR.  JANS. — Yes,  and  me. 

MRS.  MclNTOSH. — Oh,  Mr.  Jans!  And  they  do 
say — at  least  Mr.  Libriver  says — that  she 
hasn't  asked  a  man  who  hadn't  proposed  to 
her. 

MR.  JANS  (Dutchily). — I  d'no.  But  I'm  asked, 
and — 

MRS.  MclNTOSH. — You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that 
Mr.  Smith  is  asked,  too?  Oh,  that  would  be 
too  impossible.  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me, 
Mr.  Smith,  that  you  furnished  one  of  Eho- 
dora's  scalps  ten  years  ago? 

MR.  SMITH. — You  ought  to  know,  Mrs.  Mclntosh. 
Or — no — perhaps  not.  You  and  Mac  were  to 
windward  of  the  centre-board  on  Townsend's 
boat  when  7  got  the  mitten.  I  suppose  you 
couldn't  hear  us.  But  we  were  to  leeward, 
and  Miss  Pennington  said  she  hoped  all  pro 
posals  didn't  echo. 

MRS.  MclNTOSH. — The  wretched  c but  she's 

dead.  Well,  I'm  thankful  Mac— Mr.  Mclntosh 
never  could  abide  that  girl.  He  always  said 
she  was  horribly  bad  form — poor  thing,  I 
oughtn't  to  speak  so,  I  suppose.  She's  been 
punished  enough. 

MR.  SMITH. — I'm  glad  you  think  so,  Mrs.  Mcln 
tosh.  I  hope  you  won't  feel  it  necessary  to 
advise  Mac  to  refuse  her  last  dying  request. 

MRS.  MclNTOSH. — What — 

MR.  SMITH. — Oh,  well,  the  fact  is,  Mrs.  Mclntosh, 
we  only  stopped  in  to  say  that  as  Mclntosh 
and  all  the  rest  of  us  are  asked  to  be  pall- 


42  A   EOUND-UP 

bearers  at  Mrs.  Boyd's  funeral,  you  might  ask 
Mac  if  it  wouldn't  be  just  as  well  to  postpone 
the  fishing  party  for  a  week  or  so.  If  you 
remember — will  you  be  so  kind?  Thank  you, 
good  afternoon. 
MR.  JANS. — Good  afternoon,  Mrs.  Mclntosh. 


SCENE. — The  Linen  Closet,  at  the  end  of  a  sunny 
corridor  in  MR.  ALEXANDER  SLOAN'S  house. 
MRS.  SLOAN  inspecting  her  sheets  and  pillow 
cases.  To  her,  enter  BRIDGET,  her  housemaid, 
with  a  basket  full  of  linen,  the  Trega  Even 
ing  Eagle  on  the  top,  folded. 

MRS.  SLOAN. — Why,  that  surely  isn't  one  of  the 
new  napkins! — oh,  it's  the  evening  paper. 
Dear  me!  how  near-sighted  I  am  getting! 
(Takes  it  and  opens  it.}  You  may  put  those 
linen  sheets  on  the  top  shelf,  Bridget.  We'll 
hardly  need  them  again  this  Fall.  Oh,  Brid 
get — here's  poor  Mrs.  Boyd's  obituary.  You 
used  to  live  at  Colonel  Pennington's  before 
she  was  married,  didn't  you? 

BRIDGET. — I  did  that,  Mum. 

MRS.  SLOAN  (reading}. — "Mrs.  Boyd's  pall-bear 
ers  are  fitly  chosen  from  the  most  distinguished 
and  prominent  citizens  of  Trega."  I'm  sure 
I  don't  see  why  they  should  be.  (Reads.} 
"Those  invited  to  render  the  last  honors  to 
the  deceased  are  Mr.  George  Lister — " 

BRIDGET. — 'Tis  he  was  foriver  at  the  house. 

MRS.  SLOAN  (reads}. — "Mr.  John  Lang — " 


A   BOUND-UP  43 

BRIDGET. — And  him. 

MRS.  SLOAN  (reads). — "Mr.  Dexter  Townsend — " 

BRIDGET. — And  him,  too. 

MRS.  SLOAN  (reads). — "Mr.  Mclntosh,  Mr.  Will 
iam  Jans,  Mr.  Milo  Smith — " 

BRIDGET. — And  thim.  Mr.  Smith  was  her  siv- 
inth. 

MRS.  SLOAN. — Her  ivJiatf 

BRIDGET. — Her  sivinth.  There  was  eight  of  thim 
proposed  to  her  in  the  wan  week. 

MRS.  SLOAN. — Why,  Bridget!  How  can  you  pos 
sibly  know  that? 

BRIDGET. — Sure,  what  does  it  mean  whin  a  gin- 
tleman  calls  twice  in  th'  wake  an'  thin  stops 
like  he  was  shot.  An'  who  is  the  eight'  gintle- 
man  to  walk  wid  the  corpse,  Mum? 

MRS.  SLOAN. — That  is  all,  Bridget.  And  those 
pillow-cases  look  shockingly!  I  never  saw 
such  ironing!  (Exit,  hastily  and  sternly.) 

BRIDGET  (sola). — Only  siven  of  thim.  Saints 
bless  us!  The  pore  lady '11  go  wan-sided  to 
her  grave! 

SCENE. — The  Private  Office  of  MR.  PARKER  HALL. 
MR.  HALL  writing.  To  him,  enter  MR.  ALECK 
SLOAN. 

MR.  SLOAN. — Ah,  there,  Parker! 

MR.  HALL. — Ah,  there,  Aleck!  What  brings  you 
around  so  late  in  the  day? 

MR.  SLOAN. — I  just  thought  you  might  like  to  hear 
the  names  of  the  fellows  Rhodora  Pennington 
chose  for  her  pall-bearers.  (Produces  list.) 


44  A   ROUND-UP 

ME.  HALL  (sighs). — Poor  Rhodora!  Too  bad! 
Fire  ahead. 

ME.  SLOAN  (reads  list). — "George  Lister." 

ME.  HALL. — Ah! 

ME.  SLOAN  (reads). — "John  Lang." 

ME.  HALL.— Oh! 

ME.  SLOAN  (reads). — "Dexter  Townsend." 

ME.  HALL.— Well! 

ME.  SLOAN  (reads). — "McCullom  Mclntosh." 

ME.  HALL. — Say! — 

ME.  SLOAN  (reads). — "William  Jans." 

ME.  HALL. — The  Deuce! 

ME.  SLOAN  (reads). — "Milo  Smith." 

ME.  HALL. — Great  Csssar's  ghost!  This  is  get 
ting  very  personal ! 

ME.  SLOAN. — Yes.  (Reads,  nervously.)  "Alex 
ander  Sloan." 

ME.  HALL. — Whoo-o-o-o-up !     Yon,  too? 

ME.  SLOAN  (reads). — "Parker  Hall." 
(A  long  silence.) 

ME.  HALL  (faintly). — Oh,  lord,  she  rounded  us 
up,  didn't  she?  Say,  Aleck,  can't  this  thing 
be  suppressed,  somehow? 

ME.  SLOAN. — It's  in  the  evening  paper. 
(Another  long  silence.) 

ME.  HALL  (desperately). — Come  out  and  have  a 
bottle  with  me? 

ME.  SLOAN. — I  can't.  I'm  going  down  to  Bitts's 
stable  to  buy  that  pony  that  Mrs.  Sloan  took 
such  a  shine  to  a  month  or  so  ago. 

ME.  HALL. — If  7  could  get  out  of  this  for  a  pony 
—Oh,  lord! 


THE   TWO    CHURCHES 
OF    'QUAWKET 

THE  Eeverend  Colton  M.  Pursly,  of 
Aquawket  (commonly  pronounced  'Quaw- 
ket),  looked  out  of  his  study  window  over 
a  remarkably  pretty  New  England  prospect, 
stroked  his  thin,  grayish  side-whiskers,  and 
sighed  deeply.  He  was  a  pale,  sober,  ill-dressed 
Congregationalist  minister  of  forty-two  or  three. 
He  had  eyes  of  willow-pattern  blue,  a  large  nose, 
and  a  large  mouth,  with  a  smile  of  forced  ami 
ability  in  the  corners.  He  was  amiable,  perfectly 
amiable  and  innocuous — but  that  smile  some 
times  made  people  with  a  strong  sense  of  humor 
want  to  kill  him.  The  smile  lingered  even  while 
he  sighed. 

Mr.  Pur  sly 's  house  was  set  upon  a  hill,  al 
though  it  was  a  modest  abode.  From  his  win 
dow  he  looked  down  one  of  those  splendid  streets 
that  are  the  pride  and  glory  of  old  towns  in 
New  England — a  street  fifty  yards  wide,  arched 
with  grand  Gothic  elms,  bordered  with  houses 
of  pale  yellow  and  white,  some  in  the  homelike, 
simple  yet  dignified  colonial  style,  some  with 
great  Doric  porticos  at  the  street  end.  And 
above  the  billowy  green  of  the  tree-tops  rose 
two  shapely  spires,  one  to  the  right,  of  granite, 
one  to  the  left,  of  sand-stone.  It  was  the  sight 

45 


46      TWO  CHUBCHES  OF  'QUAWKET 

of  these  two  spires  that  made  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Pursly  sigh. 

"With  a  population  of  four  thousand  five  hun 
dred,  'Quawket  had  an  Episcopal  Church,  a 
Eoman  Catholic  Church,  a  Presbyterian  Church, 
a  Methodist  Church,  a  Universalist  Church  (very 
small),  a  Baptist  Church,  a  Hall  for  the  "Sev 
enth-Day  Baptists"  (used  for  secular  purposes 
every  day  but  Saturday),  a  Bethel,  and — "The 
Two  Churches" — as  every  one  called  the  First 
and  Second  Congregational  Churches.  Fifteen 
years  before,  there  had  been  but  one  Congrega 
tional  Church,  where  a  prosperous  and  contented 
congregation  worshiped  in  a  plain  little  old- 
fashioned  red  brick  church  on  a  side-street. 
Then,  out  of  this  very  prosperity,  came  the  idea 
of  building  a  fine  new  free-stone  church  on  Main 
Street.  And,  when  the  new  church  was  half- 
built,  the  congregation  split  on  the  question  of 
putting  a  "rain-box"  in  the  new  organ.  It  is 
quite  unnecessary  to  detail  how  this  quarrel  over 
a  handful  of  peas  grew  into  a  church  war,  with 
ramifications  and  interlacements  and  entangle 
ments  and  side-issues  and  under-currents  and 
embroilments  of  all  sorts  and  conditions.  In 
three  years  there  was  a  First  Congregational 
Church,  in  free-stone,  solid,  substantial,  plain, 
and  a  Second  Congregational  Church  in  granite, 
something  gingerbready,  but  showy  and  modish 
— for  there  are  fashions  in  architecture  as  there 
are  in  millinery,  and  we  cut  our  houses  this  way 
this  year  and  that  way  the  next.  And  these  two 


TWO  CHUKCHES  OF  'QUAWKET      47 

churches  had  half  a  congregation  apiece,  and  a 
full-sized  debt,  and  they  lived  together  in  a 
spirit  of  Christian  unity,  on  Capulet  and.  Mon 
tague  terms.  The  people  of  the  First  Church 
called  the  people  of  the  Second  Church  the  * '  Sad- 
duceeceders,"  because  there  was  no  future  for 
them,  and  the  people  of  the  Second  Church  called 
the  people  of  the  First  Church  the  "Pharisee- 
me"s.  And  this  went  on  year  after  year,  through 
the  "Winters  when  the  foxes  hugged  their  holes 
in  the  ground  within  the  woods  about  'Quawket, 
through  the  Summers  when  the  birds  of  the  air 
twittered  in  their  nests  in  the  great  elms  of 
Main  Street. 

If  the  First  Church  had  a  revival,  the  Second 
Church  had  a  fair.  If  the  pastor  of  the  First 
Church  exchanged  with  a  distinguished  preacher 
from  Philadelphia,  the  organist  of  the  Second 
Church  got  a  celebrated  tenor  from  Boston  and 
had  a  service  of  song.  This  system  after  a  time 
created  a  class  in  both  churches  known  as  "the 
floats,"  in  contradistinction  to  the  "pillars." 
The  floats  went  from  one  church  to  the  other 
according  to  the  attractions  offered.  There  were, 
in  the  end,  more  floats  than  pillars. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Pursly  inherited  this  con 
test  from  his  predecessor.  He  had  carried  it  on 
for  three  years.  Finally,  being  a  man  of  logical 
and  precise  mental  processes,  he  called  the  head 
men  of  his  congregation  together,  and  told  them 
what  in  worldly  language  might  be  set  down 
thus: 


48      TWO  CHUECHES  OF  'QUAWKET 

There  was  room  for  one  Congregational  Church 
in  'Quawket,  and  for  one  only.  The  flock  must 
be  reunited  in  the  parent  fold.  To  do  this  a 
master  stroke  was  necessary.  They  must  build 
a  Parish  House.  All  of  which  was  true  beyond 
question — and  yet — the  church  had  a  debt  of 
$20,000  and  a  Parish  House  would  cost  $15,000. 

And  now  the  Eeverend  Mr.  Pursly  was  sitting 
at  his  study  window,  wondering  why  all  the  rich 
men  would  join  the  Episcopal  Church.  He  cast 
down  his  eyes,  and  saw  a  rich  man  coming  up 
his  path  who  could  readily  have  given  $15,000 
for  a  Parish  House,  and  who  might  safely  be 
expected  to  give  $1.50,  if  he  were  rightly  ap 
proached.  A  shade  of  bitterness  crept  over  Mr. 
Pursly 's  professional  smile.  Then  a  look  of 
puzzled  wonder  took  possession  of  his  face. 
Brother  Joash  Hitt  was  regular  in  his  attend 
ance  at  church  and  at  prayer-meeting;  but  he 
kept  office-hours  in  his  religion,  as  in  everything 
else,  and  never  before  had  he  called  upon  his 
pastor. 

Two  minutes  later,  the  minister  was  nervously 
shaking  hands  with  Brother  Joash  Hitt. 

"I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Hitt,"  he  stam 
mered,  "very  glad — I'm — I'm — " 

11 S  'prised  1"  suggested  Mr.  Hitt,  grimly. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  asked  Mr.  Pursly. 

Mr.  Hitt  sat  down  in  the  darkest  corner  of  the 
room,  and  glared  at  his  embarrassed  host.  He 
was  a  huge  old  man,  bent,  heavily-built,  with 
grizzled  dark  hair,  black  eyes,  skin  tanned  to  a 


TWO  CHUECHES  OF  'QUAWKET      49 

mahogany  brown,  a  heavy  square  under- jaw,  and 
big  leathery  dew-laps  on  each  side  of  it  that 
looked  as  hard  as  the  jaw  itself.  Brother  Joash 
had  been  all  things  in  his  long  life — sea-captain, 
commission  merchant,  speculator,  slave-dealer 
even,  people  said — and  all  things  to  his  profit. 
Of  late  years  he  had  turned  over  his  capital  in 
money-lending,  and  people  said  that  his  great 
claw-like  fingers  had  grown  crooked  with  holding 
the  tails  of  his  mortgages. 

A  silence  ensued.  The  pastor  looked  up  and 
saw  that  Brother  Joash  had  no  intention  of 
breaking  it. 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  Mr.  Hitt?"  in 
quired  Mr.  Pursly. 

"Ya-as,"  said  the  old  man.  "Ye  kin.  I 
b'leeve  you  gin'lly  git  sump'n'  over  'n'  above 
your  sellery  when  you  preach  a  fun'l  sermon?" 

"Well,  Mr.  Hitt,  it — yes — it  is  customary.'* 

"How  much?" 

"The  usual  honorarium  is — h'm — ten  dollars." 

"The—whutf" 

"The— the  fee." 

"Will  you  write  me  one  for  ten  dollars?" 

"Why — why — "  said  the  minister,  nervously; 
"I  didn't  know  that  any  one  had — had  died — " 

"There  hain't  no  one  died,  ez  I  know.  It's 
my  fun'l  sermon  I  want." 

"But,  my  dear  Mr.  Hitt,  I  trust  you  are  not — 
that  you  won't — that — " 

"Life's  a  rope  of  sand,  parson — you'd  ought 
to  know  that — nor  we  don't  none  of  us  know 


when  it's  goin'  to  fetch  loost.  I'm  most  ninety 
now,  an'  I  don't  cal'late  to  git  no  younger." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Pur  sly,  faintly  smiling; 
"when  the  time  does  come — " 

"No,  sir!"  interrupted  Mr.  Hitt,  with  empha 
sis;  "when  the  time  doos  come,  I  won't  have  no 
use  for  it.  Th'  ain't  no  sense  in  the  way  most 
folks  is  berrid.  Whut's  th'  use  of  puttin'  a  man 
into  a  mahog'ny  coffin,  Avith  a  silver  plate  big's 
a  dishpan,  an'  preachin'  a  fun'l  sermon  over 
him,  an'  costin'  his  estate  good  money,  when 
he's  only  a  poor  deef,  dumb,  blind  fool  corpse, 
an*  don't  get  no  good  of  it?  Naow,  I've  be'n  to 
the  undertaker's,  an'  hed  my  coffin  made  under 
my  own  sooperveesion — good  wood,  straight 
grain,  no  knots — nuthin'  fancy,  but  doorable. 
I've  hed  my  tombstun  cut,  an'  chose  my  text  to 
put  onto  it — 'we  brung  nuthin'  into  the  world, 
an'  it  is  certain  we  can  take  nuthin'  out' — an' 
now  I  want  my  fun'l  sermon,  jes'  as  the  other 
folks  is  goin'  to  hear  it  who  don't  pay  nuthin' 
for  it.  Kin  you  hev  it  ready  for  me  this  day 
week?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Mr.  Pursly,  weakly. 

"I'll  call  fer  it,"  said  the  old  man.  "Heern 
some  talk  about  a  Perrish  House,  didn't  I?" 

"Yes,"  began  Mr.  Pursly,  his  face  lighting  up. 

"  'Tain't  no  sech  a  bad  idee,"  remarked 
Brother  Joash.  "Wai,  good  day."  And  he 
walked  off  before  the  minister  could  say  any 
thing  more. 


TWO  CHUKCHES  OF  'QUAWKET      51 

One  week  later,  Mr.  Pursly  again  sat  in  his 
study,  looking  at  Brother  Joash,  who  had  a  sec 
ond  time  settled  himself  in  the  dark  corner. 

It  had  been  a  terrible  week  for  Mr.  Pursly. 
He  and  his  conscience,  and  his  dream  of  the 
Parish  House,  had  been  shut  up  together  work 
ing  over  that  sermon,  and  waging  a  war  of  com 
promises.  The  casualties  in  this  war  were  all  on 
the  side  of  the  conscience. 

"Bead  it!"  commanded  Brother  Joash.  The 
minister  grew  pale.  This  was  more  than  he  had 
expected.  He  grew  pale  and  then  red  and  then 
pale  again. 

"Go  ahead!"  said  Brother  Joash. 

"Brethren,"  began  Mr.  Pursly,  and  then  he 
stopped  short.  His  pulpit  voice  sounded  strange 
in  his  little  study. 

"Go  ahead!"  said  Brother  Joash. 

"We  are  gathered  together  here  to-day  to  pay 
a  last  tribute  of  respect  and  affection — " 

"Clk!"  There  was  a  sound  like  the  report  of 
a  small  pistol.  Mr.  Pursly  looked  up.  Brother 
Joash  regarded  him  with  stern  intentness. 

" — to  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  prominent 
citizens  of  our  town,  a  pillar  of  our  church,  and 
a  monument  of  the  civic  virtues  of  probity,  in 
dustry  and  wisdom,  a  man  in  whom  we  all  took 
pride,  and — " 

"Clk!"  Mr.  Pursly  looked  up  more  quickly 
this  time,  and  a  faint  suggestion  of  an  expression 
just  vanishing  from  Mr.  Hitt's  lips  awakened  in 


52      TWO  CHUECHES  OF  'QUAWKET 

his  unsuspicious  breast  a  horrible  suspicion  that 
Brother  Joash  had  chuckled. 

" — whose  like  we  shall  not  soon  again  see  in 
our  midst.  The  children  on  the  streets  will  miss 
his  familiar  face — " 

"Say!"  broke  in  Brother  Joash,  "how'd  it  be 
for  a  delegation  of  child  'n  to  f oiler  the  remains, 
with  flowers  or  sump'n?  They'd  volunteer  if 
you  give  'em  the  hint,  wouldn't  they?" 

"It  would  be — unusual,"  said  the  minister. 

"All  right,"  assented  Mr.  Hitt,  "only  an  idee 
of  mine.  Thought  they  might  like  it.  Go  ahead ! ' ' 

Mr.  Pursly  went  ahead,  haunted  by  an  agon 
izing  fear  of  that  awful  chuckle,  if  chuckle  it 
was.  But  he  got  along  without  interruption  until 
he  reached  a  casual  and  guarded  allusion  to  the 
widows  and  orphans  without  whom  no  funeral 
oration  is  complete.  Here  the  metallic  voice  of 
Brother  Joash  rang  out  again. 

"Say!  Ef  the  widders  and  orphans  send  a 
wreath — or  a  Gates- Ajar — ef  they  do,  mind  ye! 
— you'll  hev  it  put  a-top  of  the  coffin,  where 
folks '11  see  it,  wun't  ye?" 

"Certainly,"  said  the  Eeverend  Mr.  Pursly, 
hastily;  "his  charities  were  unostentatious,  as 
was  the  whole  tenor  of  his  life.  In  these  days  of 
spendthrift  extravagance,  our  young  men  may 
well—" 

"Say!"  Brother  Joash  broke  in  once  more. 
"Ef  any  one  wuz  to  git  up  right  there,  an'  say 
that  I  wuz  the  derndest  meanest,  miserly,  penu- 


TWO  CHURCHES  OF  'QUAWKET      53 

rious,  parsimonious  old  hunks  in  'Quawket,  you 
wouldn't  let  him  talk  like  that,  would  ye?" 

"Unquestionably  not,  Mr.  Hitt!"  said  the  min 
ister,  in  horror. 

"Thought  not.  On'y  thet's  whut  I  heern  one 
o'  your  deacons  say  about  me  the  other  day. 
Didn't  know  I  heern  him,  but  I  did.  I  thought 
you  wouldn't  allow  no  such  talk  as  that.  Go 
ahead!" 

"I  must  ask  you,  Mr.  Hitt,"  Mr.  Pur  sly  said, 
perspiring  at  every  pore,  "to  refrain  from  in 
terruptions — or  I — I  really — can  not  continue." 

"All  right,"  returned  Mr.  Hitt,  with  perfect 
calmness.  ' '  Continner. ' ' 

Mr.  Pursly  continued  to  the  bitter  end,  with  no 
further  interruption  that  called  for  remonstrance. 
There  were  soft  inarticulate  sounds  that  seemed 
to  him  to  come  from  Brother  Joash's  dark  cor 
ner.  But  it  might  have  been  the  birds  in  the 
Ampelopsis  VeitcJiii  that  covered  the  house. 

Brother  Joash  expressed  no  opinion,  good  or 
ill,  of  the  address.  He  paid  his  ten  dollars,  in 
one-dollar  bills,  and  took  his  receipt.  But  as  the 
anxious  minister  followed  him  to  the  door,  he 
turned  suddenly  and  said: 

"You  was  talkin'  'bout  a  Perrish  House?" 

"Yes—  " 

"Kin  ye  keep  a  secret!" 

"I  hope  so — yes,  certainly,  Mr.  Hitt." 

"The'  '11  be  one." 

•  •••*••• 

"I  feel,"  said  the  Reverend  Mr.  Pursly  to  his 


54      TWO  CHUKCHES  OF   'QUAWKET 

wife,  "as  if  I  had  carried  every  stone  of  that 
Parish  House  on  my  shoulders  and  put  it  in  its 
place.  Can  you  make  me  a  cup  of  tea,  my 
dear?" 


The  Summer  days  had  begun  to  grow  chill, 
and  the  great  elms  of  'Quawket  were  flecked 
with  patches  and  spots  of  yellow,  when,  early 
one  morning,  the  meagre  little  charity-boy  whose 
duty  it  was  to  black  Mr.  Hitt's  boots  every  day 
— it  was  a  luxury  he  allowed  himself  in  his  old 
age — rushed,  pale  and  frightened,  into  a  neigh 
boring  grocery,  and  cried : 

"Mist'  Hitt's  dead!" 

" Guess  not,"  said  the  grocer,  doubtfully. 
"Brother  Hitt's  gut  th'  Old  Nick's  agency  for 
'Quawket,  'n'  I  ain't  heerd  th't  he's  been  dis 
charged  for  inattention  to  dooty." 

"He's  layin'  there  smilin',"  said  the  boy. 

"Smilin'?"  repeated  the  grocer.  "Guess  I'd 
better  go  'n'  see." 

In  very  truth,  Brother  Joash  lay  there  in  his 
bed,  dead  and  cold,  with  a  smile  on  his  hard  old 
lips,  the  first  he  had  ever  worn.  And  a  most 
sardonic  and  discomforting  smile  it  was. 


The  Eeverend  Mr.  Pur  sly  read  Mr.  Hitt's 
funeral  address  for  the  second  time,  in  the  First 
Congregational  Church  of  'Quawket.  Every  seat 
was  filled;  every  ear  was  attentive.  He  stood 


TWO  CHURCHES  OF  'QUAWKET      55 

on  the  platform,  and  below  him,  supported  on 
decorously  covered  trestles,  stood  the  coffin  that 
enclosed  all  that  was  mortal  of  Brother  Joash 
Hitt.  Mr.  Pursly  read  with  his  face  immovably 
set  on  the  line  of  the  clock  in  the  middle  of  the 
choir-gallery  railing.  He  did  not  dare  to  look 
down  at  the  sardonic  smile  in  the  coffin  below 
him ;  he  did  not  dare  to  let  his  eye  wander  to  the 
dark  left-hand  corner  of  the  church,  remember 
ing  the  dark  left-hand  corner  of  his  own  study. 
And  as  he  repeated  each  complimentary,  obse 
quious,  flattering  platitude,  a  hideous,  hysterical 
fear  grew  stronger  and  stronger  within  him  that 
suddenly  he  would  be  struck  chimb  by  the  '  *  elk ! ' ' 
of  that  mirthless  chuckle  that  had  sounded  so 
much  like  a  pistol-shot.  His  voice  was  hardly 
audible  in  the  benediction. 


The  streets  of  'Quawket  were  at  their  gayest 
and  brightest  when  the  mourners  drove  home 
from  the  cemetery  at  the  close  of  the  noontide 
hour.  The  mourners  were  principally  the  dea 
cons  and  elders  of  the  First  Church.  The  Eev- 
erend  Mr.  Pursly  lay  back  in  his  seat  with  a 
pleasing  yet  fatigued  consciousness  of  duty  per 
formed  and  martyrdom  achieved.  He  was  ex 
hausted,  but  humbly  happy.  As  they  drove  along, 
he  looked  with  a  speculative  eye  on  one  or  two 
eligible  sites  for  the  Parish  House.  His  com 
panion  in  the  carriage  was  Mr.  Uriel  Hankinson, 
Brother  Joash 's  lawyer,  whose  entire  character 


56      TWO  CHUKCHES  OF  'QUAWKET 

had  been  aptly  summed  up  by  one  of  his  fellow- 
citizens  in  conferring  on  him  the  designation  of 
"a  little  Joash  for  one  cent." 

" Parson,"  said  Mr.  Hankinson,  breaking  a 
long  silence,  "that  was  a  fust-rate  oration  you 
made." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,"  replied  Mr. 
Pursly,  his  chronic  smile  broadening. 

"You  treated  the  deceased  right  handsome, 
considering"  went  on  the  lawyer  Hankinson. 

"Considering  what?"  inquired  Mr.  Pursly,  in 
surprise. 

"Considerin' — well,  considerin' — "  replied  Mr. 
Hankinson,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand.  "You  must 
feel  to  be  reel  disapp'inted  'bout  the  Parish 
House,  I  sh'd  s'pose." 

"The  Parish  House?"  repeated  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Pursly,  with  a  cold  chill  at  his  heart,  but 
with  dignity  in  his  voice.  "You  may  not  be 
aware,  Mr.  Hankinson,  that  I  have  Mr.  Hitt's 
promise  that  we  should  have  a  Parish  House. 
And  Mr.  Hitt  was — was — a  man  of  his  word." 
This  conclusion  sounded  to  his  own  ears  a  trifle 
lame  and  impotent. 

"Guess  you  had  his  promise  that  there  should 
be  a  Parish  House,"  corrected  the  lawyer,  with 
a  chuckle  that  might  have  been  a  faint  echo  of 
Brother  Joash 's. 

"Well?" 

"Well — the  Second  Church  gits  it.  I  draw'd 
his  will.  Good  day,  parson,  I'll  'light  here.  Air's 
kind  o'  cold,  ain't  it?" 


THE   LOVE-LETTERS    OF    SMITH 

WHEN  the  little  seamstress  had  climbed 
to  her  room  in  the  story  over  the  top 
story  of  the  great  brick  tenement  house 
in  which  she  lived,  she  was  quite  tired  out.  If 
you  do  not  understand  what  a  story  over  a  top 
story  is,  you  must  remember  that  there  are  no 
limits  to  human  greed,  and  hardly  any  to  the 
height  of  tenement  houses.  When  the  man  who 
owned  that  seven-story  tenement  found  that  he 
could  rent  another  floor,  he  found  no  difficulty 
in  persuading  the  guardians  of  our  building 
laws  to  let  him  clap  another  story  on  the  roof, 
like  a  cabin  on  the  deck  of  a  ship;  and  in  the 
southeasterly  of  the  four  apartments  on  this  floor 
the  little  seamstress  lived.  You  could  just  see 
the  top  of  her  window  from  the  street — the  huge 
cornice  that  had  capped  the  original  front,  and 
that  served  as  her  window-sill  now,  quite  hid  all 
the  lower  part  of  the  story  on  top  of  the  top- 
story. 

The  little  seamstress  was  scarcely  thirty  years 
old,  but  she  was  such  an  old-fashioned  little  body 
in  so  many  of  her  looks  and  ways  that  I  had 
almost  spelled  her  sempstress,  after  the  fashion 
of  our  grandmothers.  She  had  been  a  comely 

67 


58    THE    LOVE-LETTERS    OF    SMITH 

body,  too;  and  would  have  been  still,  if  she  had 
not  been  thin  and  pale  and  anxious-eyed. 

She  was  tired  out  to-night  because  she  had 
been  working  hard  all  day  for  a  lady  who  lived 
far  up  in  the  "New  Wards"  beyond  Harlem 
River,  and  after  the  long  journey  home,  she  had 
to  climb  seven  flights  of  tenement-house  stairs. 
She  was  too  tired,  both  in  body  and  in  mind,  to 
cook  the  two  little  chops  she  had  brought  home. 
She  would  save  them  for  breakfast,  she  thought. 
So  she  made  herself  a  cup  of  tea  on  the  minia 
ture  stove,  and  ate  a  slice  of  dry  bread  with  it. 
It  was  too  much  trouble  to  make  toast. 

But  after  dinner  she  watered  her  flowers.  She 
was  never  too  tired  for  that;  and  the  six  pots  of 
geraniums  that  caught  the  south  sun  on  the  top 
of  the  cornice  did  their  best  to  repay  her.  Then 
she  sat  down  in  her  rocking  chair  by  the  win 
dow  and  looked  out.  Her  eyry  was  high  above 
all  the  other  buildings,  and  she  could  look  across 
some  low  roofs  opposite,  and  see  the  further  end 
of  Tompkins  Square,  with  its  sparse  Spring 
green  showing  faintly  through  the  dusk.  The 
eternal  roar  of  the  city  floated  up  to  her  and 
vaguely  troubled  her.  She  was  a  country  girl, 
and  although  she  had  lived  for  ten  years  in 
New  York,  she  had  never  grown  used  to  that 
ceaseless  murmur.  To-night  she  felt  the  languor 
of  the  new  season  as  well  as  the  heaviness  of 
physical  exhaustion.  She  was  almost  too  tired 
to  go  to  bed. 

She  thought  of  the  hard   day  done   and  the 


THE    LOVE-LETTERS    OF    SMITH    59 

hard  day  to  be  begun  after  the  night  spent  on 
the  hard  little  bed.  She  thought  of  the  peaceful 
days  in  the  country,  when  she  taught  school  in 
the  Massachusetts  village  where  she  was  born. 
She  thought  of  a  hundred  small  slights  that  she 
had  to  bear  from  people  better  fed  than  bred. 
She  thought  of  the  sweet  green  fields  that  she 
rarely  saw  nowadays.  She  thought  of  the  long 
journey  forth  and  back  that  must  begin  and  end 
her  morrow's  work,  and  she  wondered  if  her 
employer  would  think  to  offer  to  pay  her  fare. 
Then  she  pulled  herself  together.  She  must 
think  of  more  agreeable  things,  or  she  could  not 
sleep.  And  as  the  only  agreeable  things  she 
had  to  think  about  were  her  flowers,  she  looked  at 
the  garden  on  top  of  the  cornice. 

A  peculiar  gritting  noise  made  her  look  down, 
and  she  saw  a  cylindrical  object  that  glittered  in 
the  twilight,  advancing  in  an  irregular  and  un 
certain  manner  toward  her  flower-pots.  Looking 
closer,  she  saw  that  it  was  a  pewter  beer-mug, 
which  somebody  in  the  next  apartment  was  push 
ing  with  a  two-foot  rule.  On  top  of  the  beer- 
mug  was  a  piece  of  paper,  and  on  this  paper 
was  written,  in  a  sprawling,  half- formed  hand: 

porter 

pleas  excuse  the  IMerty  And 

drink  it 

The  seamstress  started  up  in  terror,  and  shut 
the  window.  She  remembered  that  there  was  a 


60    THE    LOVE-LETTERS    OF    SMITH 

man  in  the  next  apartment.  She  had  seen  him 
on  the  stairs,  on  Sundays.  He  seemed  a  grave, 
decent  person;  but — he  must  be  drunk.  She  sat 
down  on  her  bed,  all  a-tremble.  Then  she  rea 
soned  with  herself.  The  man  was  drunk,  that 
was  all.  He  probably  would  not  annoy  her  fur 
ther.  And  if  he  did,  she  had  only  to  retreat  to 
Mrs.  Mulvaney's  apartment  in  the  rear,  and  Mr. 
Mulvaney,  who  was  a  highly  respectable  man  and 
worked  in  a  boiler-shop,  would  protect  her.  So, 
being  a  poor  woman  who  had  already  had  occa 
sion  to  excuse — and  refuse — two  or  three  "lib- 
berties"  of  like  sort,  she  made  up  her  mind  to 
go  to  bed  like  a  reasonable  seamstress,  and  she 
did.  She  was  rewarded,  for  when  her  light  was 
out,  she  could  see  in  the  moonlight  that  the  two- 
foot  rule  appeared  again,  with  one  joint  bent 
back,  hitched  itself  into  the  mug-handle,  and 
withdrew  the  mug. 

The  next  day  was  a  hard  one  for  the  little 
seamstress,  and  she  hardly  thought  of  the  affair 
of  the  night  before  until  the  same  hour  had  come 
around  again,  and  she  sat  once  more  by  her  win 
dow.  Then  she  smiled  at  the  remembrance. 
"Poor  fellow,"  she  said  in  her  charitable  heart, 
"I've  no  doubt  he's  awfully  ashamed  of  it  now. 
Perhaps  he  was  never  tipsy  before.  Perhaps  he 
didn't  know  there  was  a  lone  woman  in  here  to 
be  frightened." 

Just  then  she  heard  a  gritting  sound.  She 
looked  down.  The  pewter  pot  was  in  front  of 
her,  and  the  two-foot  rule  was  slowly  retiring. 


THE    LOVE-LETTEES    OF    SMITH    61 

On  the  pot  was  a  piece  of  paper,  and  on  the 
paper  was: 

porter 

good  for  the  helth 

it  makes  meet 

This  time  the  little  seamstress  shut  her  win 
dow  with  a  bang  of  indignation.  The  color  rose 
to  her  pale  cheeks.  She  thought  that  she  would 
go  down  to  see  the  janitor  at  once.  Then  she 
remembered  the  seven  flights  of  stairs;  and  she 
resolved  to  see  the  janitor  in  the  morning.  Then 
she  went  to  bed  and  saw  the  mug  drawn  back 
just  as  it  had  been  drawn  back  the  night  before. 

The  morning  came,  but,  somehow,  the  seam 
stress  did  not  care  to  complain  to  the  janitor. 
She  hated  to  make  trouble — and  the  janitor  might 
think — and — and — well,  if  the  wretch  did  it  again 
she  would  speak  to  him  herself,  and  that  would 
settle  it. 

And  so,  on  the  next  night,  which  was  a  Thurs 
day,  the  little  seamstress  sat  down  by  her  win 
dow,  resolved  to  settle  the  matter.  And  she  had 
not  sat  there  long,  rocking  in  the  creaking  little 
rocking-chair  which  she  had  brought  with  her 
from  her  old  home,  when  the  pewter  pot  hove  in 
sight,  with  a  piece  of  paper  on  the  top. 

This  time  the  legend  read: 

Perhaps  you  are  afrade  i  will 

adress  you 

i  am  not  that  kind 


62    THE    LOVE-LETTERS    OF    SMITH 

The  seamstress  did  not  quite  know  whether  to 
laugh  or  to  cry.  But  she  felt  that  the  time  had 
come  for  speech.  She  leaned  out  of  her  window 
and  addressed  the  twilight  heaven. 

"Mr. — Mr. — sir — I — will  you  please  put  your 
head  out  of  the  window  so  that  I  can  speak  to 
you?" 

The  silence  of  the  other  room  was  undisturbed. 
The  seamstress  drew  back,  blushing.  But  before 
she  could  nerve  herself  for  another  attack,  a 
piece  of  paper  appeared  on  the  end  of  the  two- 
foot  rule. 

when  i  Say  a  thing  i 

mene  it 

i  have  Sed  i  would  not 

Adress  you  and  i 

Will  not 

What  was  the  little  seamstress  to  do?  She 
stood  by  the  window  and  thought  hard  about  it. 
Should  she  complain  to  the  janitor?  But  the 
creature  was  perfectly  respectful.  No  doubt  he 
meant  to  be  kind.  He  certainly  was  kind,  to 
waste  these  pots  of  porter  on  her.  She  remem 
bered  the  last  time — and  the  first — that  she  had 
drunk  porter.  It  was  at  home,  when  she  was  a 
young  girl,  after  she  had  had  the  diphtheria. 
She  remembered  how  good  it  was,  and  how  it 
had  given  her  back  her  strength.  And  without 
one  thought  of  what  she  was  doing,  she  lifted 
the  pot  of  porter  and  took  one  little  reminiscent 
sip  —  two  little  reminiscent  sips  —  and  became 


THE    LOVE-LETTERS    OF    SMITH    63 

aware  of  her  utter  fall  and  defeat.  She  blushed 
now  as  she  had  never  blushed  before,  put  the 
pot  down,  closed  the  window,  and  fled  to  her 
bed  like  a  deer  to  the  woods. 

And  when  the  porter  arrived  the  next  night, 
bearing  the  simple  appeal: 

Dont  be  afrade  of  it 
drink  it  all 

the  little  seamstress  arose  and  grasped  the  pot 
firmly  by  the  handle,  and  poured  its  contents 
over  the  earth  around  her  largest  geranium.  She 
poured  the  contents  out  to  the  last  drop,  and 
then  she  dropped  the  pot,  and  ran  back  and  sat 
on  her  bed  and  cried,  with  her  face  hid  in  her 
hands. 

"Now,"  she  said  to  herself,  "you've  done  it! 
And  you're  just  as  nasty  and  hard-hearted  and 
suspicious  and  mean  as — as  pusley!" 

And  she  wept  to  think  of  her  hardness  of 
heart.  "He  will  never  give  me  a  chance  to  say 
I  am  sorry,"  she  thought.  And,  really,  she 
might  have  spoken  kindly  to  the  poor  man,  and 
told  him  that  she  was  much  obliged  to  him,  but 
that  he  really  mustn't  ask  her  to  drink  porter 
with  him. 

"But  it's  all  over  and  done  now,"  she  said  to 
herself  as  she  sat  at  her  window  on  Saturday 
night.  And  then  she  looked  at  the  cornice,  and 
saw  the  faithful  little  pewter  pot  traveling  slowly 
toward  her. 

She  was  conquered.    This  act  of  Christian  for- 


64    THE    LOVE-LETTERS    OF    SMITH 

bearance  was  too  much  for  her  kindly  spirit. 
She  read  the  inscription  on  the  paper: 

porter  is  good  for  Flours 
but  better  for  Pokes 

and  she  lifted  the  pot  to  her  lips,  which  were  not 
half  so  red  as  her  cheeks,  and  took  a  good, 
hearty,  grateful  draught. 

She  sipped  in  thoughtful  silence  after  this  first 
plunge,  and  presently  she  was  surprised  to  find 
the  bottom  of  the  pot  in  full  view. 

On  the  table  at  her  side  a  few  pearl  buttons 
were  screwed  up  in  a  bit  of  white  paper.  She 
untwisted  the  paper  and  smoothed  it  out,  and 
wrote  in  a  tremulous  hand — she  could  write  a 
very  neat  hand— 

Thanks. 

This  she  laid  on  the  top  of  the  pot,  and  in  a 
moment  the  bent  two-foot  rule  appeared  and 
drew  the  mail-carriage  home.  Then  she  sat  still, 
enjoying  the  warm  glow  of  the  porter,  which 
seemed  to  have  permeated  her  entire  being  with 
a  heat  that  was  not  at  all  like  the  unpleasant 
and  oppressive  heat  of  the  atmosphere,  an  at 
mosphere  heavy  with  the  Spring  damp.  A  grit 
ting  on  the  tin  aroused  her.  A  piece  of  paper 
lay  under  her  eyes. 

fine  groing  iveather 

Smith 
it  said. 

Now  it  is  unlikely  that  in  the  whole  round  and 
range  of  conversational  commonplaces  there  was 


THE    LOVE-LETTERS    OF    SMITH    65 

one  other  greeting  that  could  have  induced  the 
seamstress  to  continue  the  exchange  of  commu 
nications.  But  this  simple  and  homely  phrase 
touched  her  country  heart.  What  did  "  groing 
weather"  matter  to  the  toilers  in  this  waste  of 
brick  and  mortar?  This  stranger  must  be,  like 
herself,  a  country-bred  soul,  longing  for  the  new 
green  and  the  upturned  brown  mould  of  the 
country  fields.  She  took  up  the  paper,  and  wrote 
under  the  first  message: 

Fine 

But  that  seemed  curt:  for  she  added:  "for" 
what?  She  did  not  know.  At  last  in  despera 
tion  she  put  down  potatos.  The  piece  of  paper 
was  withdrawn  and  came  back  with  an  addition: 

Too  mist  for  potatos. 

And  when  the  little  seamstress  had  read  this, 
and  grasped  the  fact  that  m-i-s-t  represented  the 
writer's  pronunciation  of  "moist,"  she  laughed 
softly  to  herself.  A  man  whose  mind,  at  such  a 
time,  was  seriously  bent  upon  potatos,  was  not 
a  man  to  be  feared.  She  found  a  half-sheet  of 
note-paper,  and  wrote: 

1  lived  in  a  small  village  before  I  came  to  New 
York,  but  I  am  afraid  I  do  not  know  much  about 
farming.  Are  you  a  farmer? 

The  answer  came: 

hav e  ben  most  Every  thing 
farmed  a  Spel  in  Maine 
Smith 


66    THE    LOVE-LETTERS    OF    SMITH 

As  she  read  this,  the  seamstress  heard  a 
church  clock  strike  nine. 

"Bless  me,  is  it  so  late?"  she  cried,  and  she 
hurriedly  penciled  Good  Night,  thrust  the  paper 
out,  and  closed  the  window.  But  a  few  minutes 
later,  passing  by,  she  saw  yet  another  bit  of  pa 
per  on  the  cornice,  fluttering  in  the  evening 
breeze.  It  said  only  good  nite,  and  after  a  mo 
ment's  hesitation,  the  little  seamstress  took  it 
in  and  gave  it  shelter. 


After  this,  they  were  the  best  of  friends.  Every 
evening  the  pot  appeared,  and  while  the  seam 
stress  drank  from  it  at  her  window,  Mr.  Smith 
drank  from  its  twin  at  his;  and  notes  were  ex 
changed  as  rapidly  as  Mr.  Smith's  early  educa 
tion  permitted.  They  told  each  other  their  his 
tories,  and  Mr.  Smith's  was  one  of  travel  and 
variety,  which  he  seemed  to  consider  quite  a 
matter  of  course.  He  had  followed  the  sea,  he 
had  farmed,  he  had  been  a  logger  and  a  hunter 
in  the  Maine  woods.  Now  he  was  foreman  of 
an  East  Eiver  lumber  yard,  and  he  was  pros 
pering.  In  a  year  or  two  he  would  have  enough 
laid  by  to  go  home  to  Bucksport  and  buy  a  share 
in  a  ship-building  business.  All  this  dribbled 
out  in  the  course  of  a  jerky  but  variegated  cor 
respondence,  in  which  autobiographic  details 
were  mixed  with  reflections,  moral  and  philo 
sophical. 


THE    LOVE-LETTERS    OF    SMITH    67 

A  few  samples  will  give  an  idea  of  Mr.  Smith's 
style  : 

i  was  one  trip  to  van  demens 
land 

To  which  the  seamstress  replied: 

It  must  have  been  very  interesting. 

But  Mr.  Smith  disposed  of  this  subject  very 
briefly  : 

it  wornt 

Further  he  vouchsafed: 

i  seen  a  Chinese  cook  in 

hong  kong  could  cook  flapjacks 

like  your  Mother 

a  mishnery  that  sells  Rum 

is  the  menest  of  Gods  crechers 

a  bulfite  is  not  what  it  is 
cract  up  to  Be 

the  dagos  are  wussen  the 
brutes 


i  am  6 

but  my  Father  was  6  foot  4 

The  seamstress  had  taught  school  one  Winter, 
and  she  could  not  refrain  from  making  an  at- 


68    THE    LOVE-LETTERS    OF    SMITH 

tempt  to  reform  Mr.  Smith's  orthography.    One 
evening,  in  answer  to  this  communication: 

i  Uilld  a  Bare  in  Maine  600 
Ibs  waight 

she  wrote: 

Isn't  it  generally  spelled  Bear? 

but  she  gave  up  the  attempt  when  he  responded : 

a  bare  is  a  mene  animle  any 
way  you  spel  him 

The  Spring  wore  on,  and  the  Summer  came,  and 
still  the  evening  drink  and  the  evening  corre 
spondence  brightened  the  close  of  each  day  for 
the  little  seamstress.  And  the  draught  of  porter 
put  her  to  sleep  each  night,  giving  her  a  calmer 
rest  than  she  had  ever  known  during  her  stay  in 
the  noisy  city;  and  it  began,  moreover,  to  make 
a  little  "meet"  for  her.  And  then  the  thought 
that  she  was  going  to  have  an  hour  of  pleasant 
companionship  somehow  gave  her  courage  to 
cook  and  eat  her  little  dinner,  however  tired  she 
was.  The  seamstress's  cheeks  began  to  blossom 
with  the  June  roses. 

And  all  this  time  Mr.  Smith  kept  his  vow  of 
silence  unbroken,  though  the  seamstress  some 
times  tempted  him  with  little  ejaculations  and 
exclamations  to  which  he  might  have  responded. 
He  was  silent  and  invisible.  Only  the  smoke  of 
his  pipe,  and  the  clink  of  his  mug  as  he  set  it 
down  on  the  cornice,  told  her  that  a  living,  mate- 


THE    LOVE-LETTEKS    OF    SMITH    69 

rial  Smith  was  her  correspondent.  They  never 
met  on  the  stairs,  for  their  hours  of  coming  and 
going  did  not  coincide.  Once  or  twice  they  passed 
each  other  in  the  street — but  Mr.  Smith  looked 
straight  ahead  of  him,  about  a  foot  over  her  head. 
The  little  seamstress  thought  he  was  a  very  fine- 
looking  man,  with  his  six  feet  one  and  three- 
quarters  and  his  thick  brown  beard.  Most  people 
would  have  called  him  plain. 

Once  she  spoke  to  him.  She  was  coming  home 
one  Summer  evening,  and  a  gang  of  corner-loafers 
stopped  her  and  demanded  money  to  buy  beer, 
as  is  their  custom.  Before  she  had  time  to  be 
frightened,  Mr.  Smith  appeared  —  whence,  she 
knew  not  —  scattered  the  gang  like  chaff,  and, 
collaring  two  of  the  human  hyenas,  kicked  them, 
with  deliberate,  ponderous,  alternate  kicks,  until 
they  writhed  in  ineffable  agony.  When  he  let 
them  crawl  away,  she  turned  to  him  and  thanked 
him  warmly,  looking  very  pretty  now,  with  the 
color  in  her  cheeks.  But  Mr.  Smith  answered  no 
word.  He  stared  over  her  head,  grew  red  in  the 
face,  fidgeted  nervously,  but  held  his  peace  until 
his  eyes  fell  on  a  rotund  Teuton,  passing  by. 

'  *  Say,  Dutchy ! "  he  roared. 

The  German  stood  aghast. 

"I  ain't  got  nothing  to  write  with!"  thundered 
Mr.  Smith,  looking  him  in  the  eye.  And  then  the 
man  of  his  word  passed  on  his  way. 

And  so  the  Summer  went  on,  and  the  two  cor 
respondents  chatted  silently  from  window  to  win 
dow,  hid  from  sight  of  all  the  world  below  by 


70    THE    LOVE-LETTERS    OF    SMITH 

the  friendly  cornice.  And  they  looked  out  over 
the  roof,  and  saw  the  green  of  Tompkins  Square 
grow  darker  and  dustier  as  the  months  went  on. 

Mr.  Smith  was  given  to  Sunday  trips  into  the 
suburbs,  and  he  never  came  back  without  a 
bunch  of  daisies  or  black-eyed  Susans  or,  later, 
asters  or  golden-rod  for  the  little  seamstress. 
Sometimes,  with  a  sagacity  rare  in  his  sex,  he 
brought  her  a  whole  plant,  with  fresh  loam  for 
potting. 

He  gave  her  also  a  reel  in  a  bottle,  which,  he 
wrote,  he  had  "maid"  himself,  and  some  coral, 
and  a  dried  flying-fish,  that  was  somewhat  fear 
ful  to  look  upon,  with  its  sword-like  fins  and  its 
hollow  eyes.  At  first,  she  could  not  go  to  sleep 
with  that  flying-fish  hanging  on  the  wall. 

But  he  surprised  the  little  seamstress  very 
much  one  cool  September  evening,  when  he 
shoved  this  letter  along  the  cornice: 


THE    LOVE-LETTERS    OF    SMITH    71 


/3/nd- 


/&r  AvvnfiAJL-  wMJ 


UWI 


Jfcr 

fo*v/ncrY(r  A/V~ttAs 


GVWL  J&IL  WsCc        CWIJC&-  £&£- 


72    THE    LOVE-LETTERS    OF    SMITH 

The  little  seamstress  gazed  at  this  letter  a 
long  time.  Perhaps  she  was  wondering  in  what 
Ready  Letter- Writer  of  the  last  century  Mr. 
Smith  had  found  his  form.  Perhaps  she  was 
amazed  at  the  results  of  his  first  attempt  at 
punctuation.  Perhaps  she  was  thinking  of  some 
thing  else,  for  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes  and 
a  smile  on  her  small  mouth. 

But  it  must  have  been  a  long  time,  and  Mr. 
Smith  must  have  grown  nervous,  for  presently 
another  communication  came  along  the  line  where 
the  top  of  the  cornice  was  worn  smooth.  It  read : 

//  not  understood  will  you  mary  me? 

The  little  seamstress  seized  a  piece  of  paper 
and  wrote : 

//  /  say  Yes,  will  you  speak  to  me? 

Then  she  rose  and  passed  it  out  to  him,  leaning 
out  of  the  window,  and  their  faces  met. 


ZENOBIA'S    INFIDELITY 

DR.  TIBBITT  stood  on  the  porch  of 
Mrs.  Penny  pepper 's  boarding-house,  and 
looked  up  and  down  the  deserted  Main 
Street  of  Sagawaug  with  a  contented  smile,  the 
while  he  buttoned  his  driving-gloves.  The  little 
doctor  had  good  cause  to  be  content  with  him 
self  and  with  everything  else — with  his  growing 
practice,  with  his  comfortable  boarding-house, 
with  his  own  good  looks,  with  his  neat  attire, 
and  with  the  world  in  general.  He  could  not 
but  be  content  with  Sagawaug,  for  there  never 
was  a  prettier  country  town.  The  Doctor  looked 
across  the  street  and  picked  out  the  very  house 
that  he  proposed  to  buy  when  the  one  remaining 
desire  of  his  soul  was  gratified.  It  was  a  house 
with  a  hip-roof  and  with  a  long  garden  running 
down  to  the  river. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  house  to-day,  but 
there  was  no  one  in  any  of  the  houses.  Not 
even  a  pair  of  round  bare  arms  was  visible 
among  the  clothes  that  waved  in  the  August 
breeze  in  every  back-yard.  It  was  Circus  Day 
in  Sagawaug. 

The  Doctor  was  climbing  into  his  gig  when  a 
yell  startled  him.  A  freckled  boy  with  saucer 
eyes  dashed  around  the  corner. 

73 


74  ZENOBIA'S   INFIDELITY 

"Doctor!"  he  gasped,  "come  quick!  The  cir 
cus  got  a-fire  an*  the  trick  elephant's  most 
roasted!" 

"Don't  be  silly,  Johnny ':'  said  the  Doctor, 
reprovingly. 

"Hope  to  die  —  Honest  Injun  —  cross  my 
breast!"  said  the  boy.  The  Doctor  knew  the 
sacredness  of  this  juvenile  oath. 

"Get  in  here  with  me,"  he  said,  "and  if  I  find 
you're  trying  to  be  funny,  I'll  drop  you  in  the 
river." 

As  they  drove  toward  the  outskirts  of  the 
town,  Johnny  told  his  tale. 

"Now,"  he  began,  "the  folks  was  all  out  of 
the  tent  after  the  show  was  over,  and  one  of  the 
circus  men,  he  went  to  the  oil-barrel  in  the  green 
wagon  with  Dan'l  in  the  Lion's  Den  onto  the 
outside  of  it,  an'  he  took  in  a  candle  an'  left  it 
there,  and  fust  thing  the  barrel  busted,  an'  he 
wasn't  hurted  a  bit,  but  the  trick  elephant  she 
was  burned  awful,  an'  the  ring-tailed  baboon,  he 
was  so  scared  he  had  a  fit.  Say,  did  you  know 
baboons  had  fits?" 

When  they  reached  the  circus-grounds,  they 
found  a  crowd  around  a  small  side-show  tent. 
A  strong  odor  of  burnt  leather  confirmed  John 
ny's  story.  Dr.  Tibbitt  pushed  his  way  through 
the  throng,  and  gazed  upon  the  huge  beast,  lying 
on  her  side  on  the  grass,  her  broad  shoulder 
charred  and  quivering.  Her  bulk  expanded  and 
contracted  with  spasms  of  agony,  and  from  time 
to  time  she  uttered  a  moaning  sound.  On  her 


ZENOBIA'S   INFIDELITY  75 

head  was  a  structure  of  red  cloth,  about  the 
size  of  a  bushel-basket,  apparently  intended  to 
look  like  a  British  soldier's  forage-cap.  This 
was  secured  by  a  strap  that  went  under  her  chin 
— if  an  elephant  has  a  chin.  This  scarlet  cheese- 
box  every  now  and  then  slipped  down  over  her 
eye,  and  the  faithful  animal  patiently,  in  all  her 
anguish,  adjusted  it  with  her  prehensile  trunk. 

By  her  side  stood  her  keeper  and  the  pro 
prietor  of  the  show,  a  large  man  with  a  dyed 
moustache,  a  wrinkled  face,  and  hair  oiled  and 
frizzed.  These  two  bewailed  their  loss  alter 
nately. 

"The  boss  elephant  in  the  business!"  cried 
the  showman.  "Barnum  never  had  no  trick  ele 
phant  like  Zenobia.  And  them  lynes  and  Dan'l 
was  painted  in  new  before  I  took  the  road  this 
season.  Oh,  there 's  been  a  hoodoo  on  me  since 
I  showed  ag'inst  the  Sunday-school  picnic!" 

"That  there  elephant's  been  like  my  own 
child,"  groaned  the  keeper,  "or  my  own  wife,  I 
may  say.  I've  slep'  alongside  of  her  every 
night  for  fourteen  damn  years." 

The  Doctor  had  been  carefully  examining  his 
patient. 

"If  there  is  any  analogy — "  he  began. 

"Neuralogy!"  snorted  the  indignant  show 
man;  "'tain't  neuralogy,  you  jay  pill-box,  she's 
cooked!" 

"If  there  is  any  analogy,  repeated  Dr.  Tib- 
bitt,  flushing  a  little,  "between  her  case  and  that 
of  a  human  being,  I  think  I  can  save  your  ele- 


76  ZENOBIA'S    INFIDELITY 

pliant.  Get  me  a  barrel  of  linseed  oil,  and  drive 
these  people  away." 

The  Doctor's  orders  were  obeyed  with  eager 
submission.  He  took  off  his  coat,  and  went  to 
work.  He  had  never  doctored  an  elephant,  and 
the  job  interested  him.  At  the  end  of  an  hour, 
Zenobia's  sufferings  were  somewhat  alleviated. 
She  lay  on  her  side,  chained  tightly  to  the  ground, 
and  swaddled  in  bandages.  Her  groans  had 
ceased. 

"I'll  call  to-morrow  at  noon,"  said  the  Doc 
tor — "good  gracious,  what's  that?"  Zenobia's 
trunk  was  playing  around  his  wraistband. 

"She  wants  to  shake  hands  with  you,"  her 
keeper  explained.  "She's  a  lady,  she  is,  and 
she  knows  you  done  her  good." 

"I'd  rather  not  have  anything  of  the  sort," 
said  the  Doctor,  decisively. 

When  Dr.  Tibbitt  called  at  twelve  on  the  mor 
row,  he  found  Zenobia's  tent  neatly  roped  in, 
an  amphitheatre  of  circus-benches  constructed 
around  her,  and  this  amphitheatre  packed  with 
people. 

"Got  a  quarter  apiece  from  them  jays,"  whis 
pered  the  showman,  "jest  to  see  you  dress  them 
wownds."  Subsequently  the  showman  relieved 
his  mind  to  a  casual  acquaintance.  "He's  got  a 
heart  like  a  gun-flint,  that  doctor,"  he  said; 
"made  me  turn  out  every  one  of  them  jays  and 
give  'em  their  money  back  before  he'd  lay  a 
hand  to  Zenobia." 


ZENOBIA'S    INFIDELITY  77 

But  if  the  Doctor  suppressed  the  clinic,  neither 
he  nor  the  showman  suffered.  From  dawn  till 
dusk  people  came  from  miles  around  to  stare  a 
quarter's  worth  at  the  burnt  elephant.  Once  in 
a  while,  as  a  rare  treat,  the  keeper  lifted  a  cor 
ner  of  her  bandages,  and  revealed  the  seared 
flesh.  The  show  went  off  in  a  day  or  two,  leaving 
Zenobia  to  recover  at  leisure ;  and  as  it  wandered 
westward,  it  did  an  increased  business  simply 
because  it  had  had  a  burnt  trick  elephant.  Such, 
dear  friends,  is  the  human  mind. 

The  Doctor  fared  even  better.  The  fame  of 
his  new  case  spread  far  and  wide.  People 
seemed  to  think  that  if  he  could  cure  an  ele 
phant  he  could  cure  anything.  He  was  called 
into  consultation  in  neighboring  towns.  Women 
in  robust  health  imagined  ailments,  so  as  to  send 
for  him  and  ask  him  shuddering  questions  about 
"that  wretched  animal."  The  trustees  of  the 
orphan-asylum  made  him  staff-physician — in  this 
case  the  Doctor  thought  he  could  trace  a  con 
nection  of  ideas,  in  which  children  and  a  circus 
were  naturally  associated.  And  the  local  news 
paper  called  him  a  savant. 

He  called  every  day  upon  Zenobia,  who  greeted 
him  with  trumpetings  of  joyful  welcome.  She 
also  desired  to  shake  hands  with  him,  and  her 
keeper  had  to  sit  on  her  head  and  hold  her  trunk 
to  repress  the  familiarity.  In  two  weeks  she  was 
cured,  except  for  extensive  and  permanent  scars, 
and  she  waited  only  for  a  favorable  opportunity 
to  rejoin  the  circus. 


78  ZENOBIA'S   INFIDELITY 

The  Doctor  had  got  his  fee  in  advance. 


Upon  a  sunny  afternoon  in  the  last  of  August, 
Dr.  Tibbitt  jogged  slowly  toward  Sagawaug  in 
his  neat  little  gig.  He  had  been  to  Pelion,  the 
next  town,  to  call  upon  Miss  Minetta  Bunker, 
the  young  lady  whom  he  desired  to  install  in  the 
house  with  the  garden  running  down  to  the  river. 
He  had  found  her  starting  out  for  a  drive  in 
Tom  Matson's  dog-cart.  Now,  the  Doctor  feared 
no  foe,  in  medicine  or  in  love ;  but  when  a  young 
woman  is  inscrutable  as  to  the  state  of  her 
affections,  when  the  richest  young  man  in  the 
county  is  devoting  himself  to  her,  and  when  the 
young  lady's  mother  is  backing  the  rich  man,  a 
young  country  doctor  may  well  feel  perplexed 
and  anxious  over  his  chance  of  the  prize. 

The  Doctor  was  so  troubled,  indeed,  that  he 
paid  no  heed  to  a  heavy,  repeated  thud  behind 
him,  on  the  macadamized  road.  His  gentle  little 
mare  heard  it,  though,  and  began  to  curvet  and 
prance.  The  Doctor  was  pulling  her  in,  and 
calming  her  with  a  "Soo — Soo — down,  girl, 
down!"  when  he  interrupted  himself  to  shout: 

"Great  Caesar!  get  off  me!" 

Something  like  a  yard  of  rubber  hose  had 
come  in  through  the  side  of  the  buggy,  and  was 
rubbing  itself  against  his  face.  He  looked 
around,  and  the  cold  sweat  stood  out  on  him  as 
he  saw  Zenobia,  her  chain  dragging  from  her 
hind-foot,  her  red  cap  a-cock  on  her  head,  trot- 


ZENOBIA'S   INFIDELITY  79 

ting  along  by  the  side  of  his  vehicle,  snorting 
with  joy,  and  evidently  bent  on  lavishing  her 
pliant,  serpentine,  but  leathery  caresses  upon 
his  person. 

His  fear  vanished  in  a  moment.  The  animal's 
intentions  were  certainly  pacific,  to  put  it  mildly. 
He  reflected  that  if  he  could  keep  his  horse 
ahead  of  her,  he  could  toll  her  around  the  block 
and  back  toward  her  tent.  He  had  hardly 
guessed,  as  yet,  the  depth  of  the  impression 
which  he  had  made  upon  Zenobia's  heart,  which 
must  have  been  a  large  organ,  if  the  size  of 
her  ears  was  any  indication — according  to  the 
popular  theory. 

He  was  on  the  very  edge  of  the  town,  and  his 
road  took  him  by  a  house  where  he  had  a  new 
and  highly  valued  patient,  the  young  wife  of  old 
Deacon  Burgee.  Her  malady  being  of  a  nature 
that  permitted  it,  Mrs.  Burgee  was  in  the  habit 
of  sitting  at  her  window  when  the  Doctor  made 
his  rounds,  and  indicating  the  satisfactory  state 
of  her  health  by  a  bow  and  a  smile.  On  this 
occasion  she  fled  from  the  window  with  a  shriek. 
Her  mother,  a  formidable  old  lady  under  a  red 
false-front,  came  to  the  window,  shrieked  like 
wise,  and  slammed  down  the  sash. 

The  Doctor  tolled  his  elephant  around  the 
block  without  further  misadventure,  and  they 
started  up  the  road  toward  Zenobia's  tent,  Zeno- 
bia  caressing  her  benefactor  while  shudders  of 
antipathy  ran  over  his  frame.  In  a  few  minutes 
the  keeper  hove  in  sight.  Zenobia  saw  him  first, 


80  ZENOBIA'S   INFIDELITY 

blew  a  shrill  blast  on  her  trumpet,  close  to  the 
Doctor's  ear,  bolted  through  a  snake-fence,  lum 
bered  across  a  turnip-field,  and  disappeared  in 
a  patch  of  woods,  leaving  the  Doctor  to  quiet 
his  excited  horse  and  to  face  the  keeper,  who 
advanced  with  rage  in  his  eye. 

"What  do  you  mean,  you  cuss,"  he  began, 
"weaning  a  man's  elephant's  affections  away 
from  him?  You  ain't  got  no  more  morals  than 
a  Turk,  you  ain't.  That  elephant  an'  me  has 
been  side-partners  for  fourteen  years,  an'  here 
you  come  between  us." 

"I  don't  want  your  confounded  elephant," 
roared  the  Doctor;  "why  don't  you  keep  it 
chained  up?" 

"She  busted  her  chain  to  git  after  you,"  re 
plied  the  keeper.  "Oh,  I  seen  you  two  lally- 
gaggin'  all  along  the  road.  I  knowed  you  wa'n't 
no  good  the  first  time  I  set  eyes  on  yer,  a-sayin' 
hoodoo  words  over  the  poor  dumb  beast." 

The  Doctor  resolved  to  banish  "analogy"  from 
his  vocabulary. 


The  next  morning,  about  four  o'clock,  Dr.  Tib- 
bitt  awoke  with  a  troubled  mind.  He  had  driven 
home  after  midnight  from  a  late  call,  and  he  had 
had  an  uneasy  fancy  that  he  saw  a  great  shadowy 
bulk  ambling  along  in  the  mist-hid  fields  by  the 
roadside.  He  jumped  out  of  bed  and  went  to 
the  window.  Below  him,  completely  covering 
Mrs.  Pennypepper  's  nasturtium  bed,  her  pre- 


ZENOBIA'S   INFIDELITY  81 

hensile  trunk  ravaging  the  early  chrysanthe 
mums,  stood  Zenobia,  swaying  to  and  fro,  the 
dew  glistening  on  her  seamed  sides  beneath  the 
early  morning  sunlight.  The  Doctor  hastily 
dressed  himself  and  slipped  downstairs  and  out, 
to  meet  this  Frankenstein's  monster  of  affection. 

There  was  but  one  thing  to  do.  Zenobia  would 
follow  him  wherever  he  went — she  rushed  madly 
through  Mrs.  Pennypepper 's  roses  to  greet  him — 
and  his  only  course  was  to  lead  her  out  of  the 
town  before  people  began  to  get  up,  and  to  detain 
her  in  some  remote  meadow  until  he  could  get 
her  keeper  to  come  for  her  and  secure  her  by 
force  or  stratagem.  He  set  off  by  the  least  fre 
quented  streets,  and  he  experienced  a  pang  of 
horror  as  he  remembered  that  his  way  led  him 
past  the  house  of  his  one  professional  rival  in 
Sagawaug.  Suppose  Dr.  Pettengill  should  be 
coming  home  or  going  out  as  he  passed! 

He  did  not  meet  Dr.  Pettengill.  He  did  meet 
Deacon  Burgee,  who  stared  at  him  with  more  of 
rage  than  of  amazement  in  his  wrinkled  counte 
nance.  The  Deacon  was  carrying  a  large  bundle 
of  embroidered  linen  and  flannel,  that  must  have 
been  tied  up  in  a  hurry. 

"Good  morning,  Deacon,"  the  Doctor  hailed 
him,  with  as  much  ease  of  manner  as  he  could 
assume.  "How's  Mrs.  Burgee?" 

"She's  doin'  fust  rate,  no  thanks  to  no  circus 
doctors  I"  snorted  the  Deacon.  "An'  if  you  want 
to  know  anything  further  concernin'  her  health, 
you  ask  Dr.  Pettengill.  He's  got  more  sense 


82  ZENOBIA'S   INFIDELITY 

than  to  go  trailin'  around  the  streets  with  a 
parboiled  elephant  behind  him,  a-frightening 
women-folks  a  hull  month  afore  the'r  time." 

"Why,  Deacon!"  cried  the  Doctor,  "what — 
what  is  it?" 

"It's  a  boy,"  responded  the  Deacon  sternly; 
"and  it's  God's  own  mercy  that  'twa'n't  born 
with  a  trunk  and  a  tail." 


The  Doctor  found  a  secluded  pasture,  near  the 
woods  that  encircled  the  town,  and  there  he  sat 
him  down,  in  the  corner  of  a  snake-fence,  to 
wait  until  some  farmer  or  market-gardener 
should  pass  by,  to  carry  his  message  to  the  keep 
er.  He  had  another  message  to  send,  too.  He 
had  several  cases  that  must  be  attended  to  at 
once.  Unless  he  could  get  away  from  his  pachy 
dermatous  familiar,  Pettengill  must  care  for  his 
cases  that  morning.  It  was  hard — but  what  was 
he  to  do? 

Zenobia  stood  by  his  side,  dividing  her  atten 
tion  between  the  caresses  she  bestowed  on  him 
and  the  care  she  was  obliged  to  take  of  her  red 
cap,  which  was  not  tightly  strapped  on,  and 
slipped  in  various  directions  at  every  movement 
of  her  gigantic  head.  She  was  unmistakably 
happy.  From  time  to  time  she  trumpeted  cheer 
ily.  She  plucked  up  tufts  of  grass,  and  offered 
them  to  the  Doctor.  He  refused  them,  and  she 
ate  them  herself.  Once  he  took  a  daisy  from 
her,  absent-mindedly,  and  she  was  so  greatly 


ZENOBIA'S   INFIDELITY  83 

pleased  that  she  smashed  his  hat  in  her  endeav 
ors  to  pet  him.  The  Doctor  was  a  kind-hearted 
man.  He  had  to  admit  that  Zenobia  meant  well. 
He  patted  her  trunk,  and  made  matters  worse. 
Her  elephantine  ecstasy  came  near  being  the 
death  of  him. 

Still  the  farmer  came  not,  nor  the  market- 
gardener.  Dr.  Tibbitt  began  to  believe  that  he 
had  chosen  a  meadow  that  was  too  secluded.  At 
last  two  boys  appeared.  After  they  had  stared 
at  him  and  at  Zenobia  for  half  an  hour,  one  of 
them  agreed  to  produce  Dr.  Pettengill  and  Zeno 
bia 's  keeper  for  fifty  cents.  Dr.  Pettengill  was 
the  first  to  arrive.  He  refused  to  come  nearer 
than  the  furthest  limit  of  the  pasture. 

"Hello,  Doctor,"  he  called  out,  "hear  you've 
been  seeing  elephants.  Want  me  to  take  your 
cases?  Guess  I  can.  Got  a  half -hour  free. 
Brought  some  bromide  down  for  you,  if  you'd 
like  to  try  it." 

To  judge  from  his  face,  Zenobia  was  invisible. 
But  his  presence  alarmed  that  sensitive  animal. 
She  crowded  up  close  to  the  fence,  and  every 
time  she  flicked  her  skin  to  shake  off  the  flies  she 
endangered  the  equilibrium  of  the  Doctor,  who 
was  sitting  on  the  top  rail,  for  dignity's  sake. 
He  shouted  his  directions  to  his  colleague,  who 
shouted  back  professional  criticisms. 

"Salicylate  of  soda  for  that  old  woman? 
What's  the  matter  with  salicylate  of  cinchoni- 
dia?  Don't  want  to  kill  her  before  you  get  ont 
of  this  swamp,  do  you?" 


84  ZENOBIA'S   INFIDELITY 

Dr.  Tibbitt  was  not  a  profane  man;  but  at 
this  moment  he  could  not  restrain  himself. 

"Damn  you!"  he  said,  with  such  vigor  that 
the  elephant  gave  a  convulsive  start.  The  Doc 
tor  felt  his  seat  depart  from  under  him — he 
was  going — going  into  space  for  a  brief  moment, 
and  then  he  scrambled  up  out  of  the  soft  mud 
of  the  cow-wallow  back  of  the  fence  on  which 
he  had  been  sitting.  Zenobia  had  backed  again^ 
the  fence. 

The  keeper  arrived  soon  after.  He  had  only 
reached  the  meadow  when  Zenobia  lifted  her 
trunk  in  the  air,  emitted  a  mirthful  toot,  and 
struck  out  for  the  woods  with  the  picturesque 
and  cumbersome  gallop  of  a  mastodon  pup. 

"Dern  you,"  said  the  keeper  to  Dr.  Tibbitt, 
who  was  trying  to  fasten  his  collar,  which  had 
broken  loose  in  his  fall;  "if  the  boys  was  here, 
and  I  hollered  'Hey  Bube!' — there  wouldn't  be 
enough  left  of  yer  to  spread  a  plaster  fer  a 
baby's  bile!" 

The  Doctor  made  himself  look  as  decent  as  the 
situation  allowed,  and  then  he  marched  toward 
the  town  with  the  light  of  a  firm  resolve  illumi 
nating  his  face.  The  literature  of  his  childhood 
had  come  to  his  aid.  He  remembered  the  un 
kind  tailor  who  pricked  the  elephant's  trunk.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  the  tailor  was  a  rather  good 
fellow. 

"If  that  elephant's  disease  is  gratitude," 
thought  the  Doctor,  "I'll  give  her  an  antidote." 

He  went  to  the  drug-store,  and,  as  he  went, 


ZENOBIA'S    INFIDELITY  85 

he  pulled  out  a  blank  pad  and  wrote  down  a  pre 
scription,  from  mere  force  of  habit.    It  read  thus : 

PESSELS  &  MORTON, 
DRUGGISTS, 

Commercial  Block,    Main   Street,    Sagawaug. 
PRESCRIPTIONS   CAREFULLY   COMPOUNDED.  -*®& 


£/ 


fa  . 


When  the  druggist  looked  at  it,  he  was  taken 
short  of  breath. 

"What's  this!"  he  asked— ' 'a  bombshell?" 

"Put  it  up,"  said  the  Doctor,  "and  don't  talk 
so  much."  He  lingered  nervously  on  the  drug 
gist's  steps,  looking  up  and  down  the  street.  He 
had  sent  a  boy  to  order  the  stable-man  to  harness 
his  gig.  By-and-by,  the  druggist  put  his  head 
out  of  the  door. 

"I've  got  some  asafcetida  pills,"  he  said,  "that 
are  kind  o'  tired,  and  half  a  pound  of  whale-oil 
soap  that's  higher  'n  Haman — 

"Put  'em  in!"  said  the  Doctor,  grimly,  as  he 
saw  Zenobia  coming  in  sight  far  down  the  street. 


86  ZENOBIA'S   INFIDELITY 

She  came  up  while  the  Doctor  was  waiting  for 
the  bolus.  Twenty-three  boys  were  watching 
them,  although  it  was  only  seven  o'clock  in  the 
morning. 

"Down,  Zenobia!"  said  the  Doctor,  thought 
lessly,  as  he  might  have  addressed  a  dog.  He 
was  talking  with  the  druggist,  and  Zenobia  was 
patting  his  ear  with  her  trunk.  Zenobia  sank  to 
her  knees.  The  Doctor  did  not  notice  her.  She 
folded  her  trunk  about  him,  lifted  him  to  her 
back,  rose,  with  a  heave  and  a  sway,  to  her  feet, 
and  started  up  the  road.  The  boys  cheered.  The 
Doctor  got  off  on  the  end  of  an  elm-branch.  His 
descent  was  watched  from  nineteen  second-story 
windows. 

His  gig  came  to  meet  him  at  last,  and  he  en 
tered  it  and  drove  rapidly  out  of  town,  with 
Zenobia  trotting  contentedly  behind  him.  As 
soon  as  he  had  passed  Deacon  Burgee's  house, 
he  drew  rein,  and  Zenobia  approached,  while 
his  perspiring  mare  stood  on  her  hind  legs. 

"Zenobia — pill!"  said  the  Doctor. 

As  she  had  often  done  in  her  late  illness,  Ze 
nobia  opened  her  mouth  at  the  word  of  command, 
and  swallowed  the  infernal  bolus.  Then  they 
started  up  again,  and  the  Doctor  headed  for 
Zenobia 's  tent. 

But  Zenobia 's  pace  was  sluggish.  She  had 
been  dodging  about  the  woods  for  two  nights,  and 
she  was  tired.  When  the  Doctor  whipped  up,  she 
seized  the  buggy  by  any  convenient  projection, 
and  held  it  back.  This  damaged  the  buggy  and 


ZENOBIA 'S   INFIDELITY  87 

frightened  the  horse;  but  it  accomplished  Zeno 
bia 's  end.  It  was  eleven  o'clock  before  Jake 
Bumgardner  's  "  Half  -Way  House"  loomed  up 
white,  afar  down  the  dusty  road,  and  the  Doctor 
knew  that  his  round-about  way  had  at  length 
brought  him  near  to  the  field  where  the  circus- 
tent  had  been  pitched. 

He  drove  on  with  a  lighter  heart  in  his  bosom. 
He  had  not  heard  Zenobia  behind  him  for  some 
time.  He  did  not  know  what  had  become  of  her, 
or  what  she  was  doing,  but  he  learned  later. 

The  Doctor  had  compounded  a  pill  well  calcu 
lated  to  upset  Zenobia 's  stomach.  That  it  would 
likewise  give  her  a  consuming  thirst  he  had  not 
considered.  But  chemistry  was  doing  its  duty 
without  regard  to  him.  A  thirst  like  a  furnace 
burned  within  Zenobia.  Capsicum  and  chloride 
of  lime  were  doing  their  work.  She  gasped  and 
groaned.  She  searched  for  water.  She  filled  her 
trunk  at  a  wayside  trough  and  poured  the  con 
tents  into  her  mouth.  Then  she  sucked  up  a 
puddle  or  two.  Then  she  came  to  Bumgardner 's, 
where  a  dozen  kegs  of  lager-beer  and  a  keg  of 
what  passed  at  Bumgardner 's  for  gin  stood  on 
the  sidewalk.  Zenobia 's  circus  experience  had 
taught  her  what  a  water-barrel  meant.  She  ap 
plied  her  knowledge.  With  her  forefoot  she 
deftly  staved  in  the  head  of  one  keg  after  an 
other,  and  with  her  trunk  she  drew  up  the  beer 
and  the  gin,  and  delivered  them  to  her  stomach. 
If  you  think  her  taste  at  fault,  remember  the 
bolus. 


88  ZENOBIA 'S   INFIDELITY 

Bumgardner  rushed  out  and  assailed  her  with 
a  bung-starter.  She  turned  upon  him  and 
squirted  lager-beer  over  him  until  he  was  cov 
ered  with  an  iridescent  lather  of  foam  from 
head  to  foot.  Then  she  finished  the  kegs  and 
went  on  her  way,  to  overtake  the  Doctor. 

The  Doctor  was  speeding  his  mare  merrily 
along,  grateful  for  even  a  momentary  relief  from 
Zenobia 's  attentions,  when,  at  one  and  the  same 
time,  he  heard  a  heavy,  uncertain  thumping  on 
the  road  behind  him,  and  the  quick  patter  of  a 
trotter's  hoofs  on  the  road  ahead  of  him.  He 
glanced  behind  him  first,  and  saw  Zenobia.  She 
swayed  from  side  to  side,  more  than  was  her 
wont.  Her  red  cap  was  far  down  over  her 
left  eye.  Her  aspect  was  rakish,  and  her  gait 
was  unsteady.  The  Doctor  did  not  know  it,  but 
Zenobia  was  drunk. 

Zenobia  was  sick,  but  intoxication  dominated 
her  sickness.  Even  sulphide  of  calcium  with 
drew  courteously  before  the  might  of  beer  and 
gin.  Eocking  from  side  to  side,  reeling  across 
the  road  and  back,  trumpeting  in  imbecile  inex 
pressive  tones,  Zenobia  advanced. 

The  Doctor  looked  forward.  Tom  Matson  sat 
in  his  dog-cart,  with  Miss  Bunker  by  his  side. 
His  horse  had  caught  sight  of  Zenobia,  and  he 
was  rearing  high  in  air,  and  whinnying  in  terror. 
Before  Tom  could  pull  him  down,  he  made  a  sud 
den  break,  overturned  the  dog-cart,  and  flung 
Tom  and  Miss  Minetta  Bunker  on  a  bank  by  the 


ZENOBIA'S   INFIDELITY  89 

side  of  the  road.  It  was  a  soft  bank,  well-grown 
with  mint  and  stinging-nettles,  just  above  a 
creek.  Tom  had  scarce  landed  before  he  was  up 
and  off,  running  hard  across  the  fields. 

Miss  Minetta  rose  and  looked  at  him  with  fire 
in  her  eyes. 

"Well!"  she  said  aloud;  "I'd  like  Mother 
to  see  you  now!" 

The  Doctor  had  jumped  out  of  his  gig  and  let 
his  little  mare  go  galloping  up  the  road.  He 
had  his  arm  about  Miss  Minetta 's  waist  when 
he  turned  to  face  his  familiar  demon — which 
may  have  accounted  for  the  pluck  in  his  face. 

But  Zenobia  was  a  hundred  yards  down  the 
road,  and  she  was  utterly  incapable  of  getting 
any  further.  She  trumpeted  once  or  twice,  then 
she  wavered  like  a  reed  in  the  wind;  her  legs 
weakened  under  her  and  she  sank  on  her  side. 
Her  red  cap  had  slipped  down,  and  she  picked 
it  up  with  her  trunk,  broke  its  band  in  a  reck 
less  swing  that  resembled  the  wave  of  jovial 
farewell,  gave  one  titanic  hiccup,  and  fell  asleep 
by  the  roadside. 

•  ••••••• 

An  hour  later,  Dr.  Tibbitt  was  driving  toward 
Pelion,  with  Miss  Bunker  by  his  side.  His  horse 
had  been  stopped  at  the  toll-gate.  He  was  driv 
ing  with  one  hand.  Perhaps  he  needed  the  other 
to  show  how  they  could  have  a  summer-house  in 
the  garden  that  ran  down  to  the  river. 


90  ZENOBIA 'S   INFIDELITY 

But  it  was  evening  when  Zenobia  awoke  to  find 
her  keeper  sitting  on  her  head.  He  jabbed  a 
cotton-hook  firmly  and  decisively  into  her  ear, 
and  led  her  homeward  down  the  road  lit  by  the 
golden  sunset.  That  was  the  end  of  Zenobia 's 
infidelity. 


THE   NINE    CENT- GIRLS 

MISS  BESSIE  VAUX,  of  Baltimore,  paid 
a  visit  to  her  aunt,  the  wife  of  the 
Commandant  at  old  Fort  Starbuck, 
Montana.  She  had  at  her  small  feet  all  the 
garrison  and  some  two  dozen  young  ranch-own 
ers,  the  flower  of  the  younger  sons  of  the  best 
society  of  New  York,  Boston,  and  Philadelphia. 
Thirty-seven  notches  in  the  long  handle  of  her 
parasol  told  the  story  of  her  three  months'  stay. 
The  thirty- seventh  was  final.  She  accepted  a 
measly  Second-Lieutenant,  and  left  all  the  bach 
elors  for  thirty  miles  around  the  Fort  to  mourn 
her  and  to  curse  the  United  States  Army.  This 
is  the  proem. 


Mr.  John  Winfield,  proprietor  of  the  Winfield 
Ranch,  sat  a-straddle  a  chair  in  front  of  the  fire 
in  his  big  living  room,  and  tugged  at  his  hand 
some  black  beard  as  he  discussed  the  situation 
with  his  foreman,  who  was  also  his  confidant, 
his  best  friend  and  his  old  college  mate.  Mr. 
Richard  Cutter  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire, 
twirled  a  very  blonde  moustache  and  smoked 
cigarettes  continually  while  he  ministered  to  his 
suffering  friend,  who  was  sore  wounded  in  his 

91 


92  THE   NINE    CENT-GIRLS 

vanity,  having  been  notch  No.  36  on  Miss  Vaux's 
parasol.  Dick  had  been  notch  No.  1;  but  Dick 
was  used  to  that  sort  of  thing. 

"By  thunder,"  said  Mr.  Winfield,  "I'm  going 
to  get  married  this  year,  if  I  have  to  marry  a 
widow  with  six  children.  And  I  guess  I'll  have 
to.  I've  been  ten  years  in  this  girlless  wilder 
ness,  and  I  never  did  know  any  girls  to  speak  of, 
at  home.  Now  you,  you  always  everlastingly 
knew  girls.  What's  that  place  you  lived  at  in 
New  York  State — where  there  were  so  many 
girls?" 

"Tusculum,"  replied  Mr.  Cutter,  in  a  tone  of 
complacent  reminiscence.  "Nice  old  town,  plas 
tered  so  thick  with  mortgages  that  you  can't 
grow  flowers  in  the  front  yard.  All  the  fellows 
strike  for  New  York  as  soon  as  they  begin  to 
shave.  The  crop  of  girls  remains,  and  they 
wither  on  the  stem.  Why,  one  Winter  they  had 
a  humpbacked  man  for  their  sole  society  star  in 
the  male  line.  Nice  girls,  too.  Old  families. 
Pretty,  lots  of  them.  Good  form,  too,  for  pro 
vincials." 

"Gad!"  said  Jack  Winfield.  "I'd  like  to  live 
in  Tusculum  for  a  year  or  so." 

"No,  you  wouldn't.  It's  powerful  dull.  But 
the  girls  were  nice.  Now,  there  were  the  Nine 
Cent-Girls." 

"The  Nine-cent  Girls?" 

"No,  the  Nine  Cent-Girls.  Catch  the  differ 
ence?  They  were  the  daughters  of  old  Bailey, 
the  civil  engineer.  Nine  of  'em,  ranging  from 


THE    NINE    CENT-GIRLS  93 

twenty- two,  when  I  was  there — that's  ten  years 
ago — down  to — oh,  I  don't  know — a  kid  in  a 
pinafore.  All  looked  just  alike,  barring  age,  and 
every  one  had  the  face  of  the  Indian  lady  on  the 
little  red  cent.  Do  you  remember  the  Indian 
lady  on  the  little  red  cent?" 

"Hold  on,"  suggested  Jack,  rising;  "I've  got 
one.  I've  had  it  ever  since  I  came."  He  un 
locked  his  desk,  rummaged  about  in  its  depths, 
and  produced  a  specimen  of  the  neatest  and  most 
artistic  coin  that  the  United  States  Government 
has  ever  struck. 

"That's  it,"  said  Dick,  holding  the  coppery 
disk  in  his  palm.  "It  would  do  for  a  picture  of 
any  one  of  'em — only  the  Bailey  girls  didn't 
wear  feathers  in  their  hair.  But  there  they 
were,  nine  of  'em,  nice  girls,  every  way,  and  the 
whole  lot  named  out  of  the  classics.  Old  Bailey 
was  strong  on  the  classics.  His  great-grand 
father  named  Tusculum,  and  Bailey's  own  name 
was  M.  Cicero  Bailey.  So  he  called  all  his  girls 
by  heathen  names,  and  had  a  row  with  the  parson 
every  christening.  Let  me  see — there  was  Eu- 
phrosyne,  and  Clelia,  and  Lydia,  and  Flora  and 
Aurora — those  were  the  twins — I  was  sweet  on 
one  of  the  twins — and  Una — and,  oh,  I  can't 
remember  them  all.  But  they  were  mighty  nice 
girls." 

"Probably  all  married  by  this  time,"  Jack 
groaned.  "Let  me  look  at  that  cent."  He  held 
it  in  the  light  of  the  fire,  and  gazed  thoughtfully 
npon  it. 


94  THE   NINE    CENT-GIRLS 

"Not  a  one,"  Dick  assured  him.  "I  met  a 
chap  from  Tusculum  last  time  I  was  in  Butte 
City,  and  I  asked  him.  He  said  there 'd  been 
only  one  wedding  in  Tusculum  in  three  years, 
and  then  the  local  paper  had  a  wire  into  the 
church  and  got  out  extras." 

"What  sort  of  girls  were  they?"  Winfield 
asked,  still  regarding  the  coin. 

"Just  about  like  that,  for  looks.  Let  "me  see 
it  again."  Dick  examined  the  cent  critically, 
and  slipped  it  into  his  pocket,  in  an  absent- 
minded  way.  "Just  about  like  that.  First  rate 
girls.  Old  man  was  as  poor  as  a  church  mouse ; 
but  you  would  never  have  known  it,  the  way 
that  house  was  run.  Bright  girls,  too — at  least, 
my  twin  was.  I've  forgotten  which  twin  it  was; 
but  she  was  too  bright  for  me." 

"And  how  old  did  you  say  they  were?  How 
old  was  the  youngest?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Dick,  with  a 
bachelor's  vagueness  on  the  question  of  a  child's 
age,  "five — six — seven,  may  be.  Ten  years  ago, 
you  know." 

"Just  coming  in  to  grass,"  observed  Mr.  Win- 
field,  meditatively. 


Two  months  after  the  evening  on  which  this 
conversation  took  place,  Mr.  Eichard  Cutter 
walked  up  one  of  the  quietest  and  most  emi 
nently  respectable  of  the  streets  of  Tusculum. 

Mr.   Cutter  was  nervous.     He   was,   for   the 


THE   NINE    CENT-GIRLS  95 

second  time,  making  up  his  mind  to  attempt  a 
difficult  and  delicate  task.  He  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  it,  or  had  had  it  made  up  for  him;  but 
now  he  felt  himself  obliged  to  go  over  the  whole 
process  in  his  memory,  in  order  to  assure  him 
self  that  the  mind  was  really  made  up. 

The  suggestion  had  come  from  Winfield.  He 
remembered  with  what  a  dazed  incomprehension 
he  had  heard  his  chum's  proposition  to  induce 
Mr.  Bailey  and  all  his  family  to  migrate  to  Mon 
tana  and  settle  at  Starbuck. 

"We'll  give  the  old  man  all  the  surveying  he 
wants.  And  he  can  have  Ashford's  place  on  the 
big  dam  when  Ashford  goes  East  in  August. 
Why,  the  finger  of  Providence  is  pointing  Bailey 
straight  for  Starbuck." 

With  a  clearer  remembrance  of  Eastern  con 
ventionalities  than  Mr.  Winfield,  Dick  Cutter  had 
suggested  various  obstacles  in  the  way  of  this 
apparently  simple  scheme.  But  Winfield  would 
hear  of  no  opposition,  and  he  joined  with  him 
eight  other  young  ranchmen,  who  entered  into 
the  idea  with  wild  Western  enthusiasm  and  an 
Arcadian  simplicity  that  could  see  no  chance  of 
failure.  These  energetic  youths  subscribed  a 
generous  fund  to  defray  the  expenses  of  Mr. 
Cutter  as  a  missionary  to  Tusculum;  and  Mr. 
Cutter  had  found  himself  committed  to  the  ven 
ture  before  he  knew  it. 

Now,  what  had  seemed  quite  feasible  in  Star- 
buck's  wilds  wore  a  different  face  in  prim  and 
proper  Tusculum.  It  dawned  on  Mr.  Cutter  that 


96  THE   NINE    CENT-GIRLS 

he  was  about  to  make  a  most  radical  and  some 
what  impudent  proposition  to  a  conservative 
old  gentleman.  The  atmosphere  of  Tusculum 
weighed  heavy  on  his  spirits,  which  were  light 
and  careless  enough  in  his  adopted  home  in 
Montana. 

Therefore  Mr.  Cutter  found  his  voice  very 
uncertain  as  he  introduced  himself  to  the  young 
lady  who  opened,  at  his  ring,  the  front  door  of 
one  of  the  most  respectable  houses  in  that  re 
spectable  street  of  Tusculum. 

"Good  morning/'  he  said,  wondering  which 
one  of  the  Nine  Cent-Girls  he  saw  before  him; 
and  then,  noting  a  few  threads  of  gray  in  her 
hair,  he  ventured: 

"It's  Miss — Miss  Euphrosyne,  isn't  it?  Yon 
don't  remember  me — Mr.  Cutter,  Dick  Cutter? 
Used  to  live  on  Ovid  Street.  Can  I  see  your 
father?" 

"My  father?"  repeated  Miss  Euphrosyne, 
looking  a  little  frightened. 

"Yes — I  just  want— 

""Why,  Mr.  Cutter — I  do  remember  you  now 
— didn't  you  know  that  Papa  died  nine  years 
ago — the  year  after  you  left  Tusculum?" 

Dick  Cutter  leaned  against  the  door-jamb  and 
stared  speechlessly  at  Euphrosyne.  He  noted 
vaguely  that  she  looked  much  the  same  as  when 
he  had  last  seen  her,  except  that  she  looked  tired 
and  just  a  shade  sad.  When  he  was  able  to 
think,  he  said  that  he  begged  her  pardon.  Then 
she  smiled,  faintly. 


THE   NINE    CENT-GIRLS  97 

"We  couldn't  expect  you  to  know/'  she  said, 
simply.  "Won't  you  come  in?" 

"N-N-No,"  stuttered  Dick.  "I-I-I'll  call  later 
— this  evening,  if  you  don't  mind.  Ah — ah — 
good  day."  And  he  fled  to  his  hotel,  to  pull 
himself  together,  leaving  Miss  Euphrosyne 
smiling. 

He  sat  alone  in  his  room  all  the  afternoon, 
pondering  over  the  shipwreck  of  his  scheme. 
What  should  he  tell  the  boys?  What  would  the 
boys  say?  Why  had  he  not  thought  to  write 
before  he  came?  Why  on  earth  had  Bailey 
taken  it  into  his  head  to  die? 

After  supper,  he  resolved  to  call  as  he  had 
promised.  Mrs.  Bailey,  he  knew,  had  died  a 
year  after  the  appearance  of  her  ninth  daughter. 
But,  he  thought,  with  reviving  hope,  there  might 
be  a  male  head  to  the  family — an  uncle,  per 
haps. 

The  door  was  opened  by  Clytie,  the  youngest 
of  the  nine.  She  ushered  him  at  once  into  a 
bright  little  parlor,  hung  around  with  dainty 
things  in  artistic  needlework  and  decorative 
painting.  A  big  lamp  glowed  on  a  centre-table, 
and  around  it  sat  seven  of  the  sisters,  each  one 
engaged  in  some  sort  of  work,  sewing,  embroid 
ering  or  designing.  Nearest  the  lamp  sat  Eu 
phrosyne,  reading  Macaulay  aloud.  She  stopped 
as  he  entered,  and  welcomed  him  in  a  half -timid 
but  wholly  friendly  fashion. 

Dick  sat  down,  very  much  embarrassed,  in 
spite  of  the  greeting.  It  was  many  years  since 


98  THE   NINE    CENT-GIKLS 

he  had  talked  to  nine  ladies  at  once.  And,  in 
truth,  a  much  less  embarrassed  man  might  have 
found  himself  more  or  less  troubled  to  carry  on 
a  conversation  with  nine  young  women  who 
looked  exactly  like  each  other,  except  for  the 
delicate  distinctions  of  age  which  a  masculine 
stranger  might  w^ell  be  afraid  to  note.  Dick 
looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  placid  classic 
faces,  and  could  not  help  having  an  uneasy  idea 
that  each  new  girl  that  he  addressed  was  only 
the  last  one  who  had  slipped  around  the  table 
and  made  herself  look  a  year  or  two  older  or 
younger. 

But  after  a  w^hile  the  pleasant,  genial,  social 
atmosphere  of  the  room,  sweet  with  a  delicate, 
winning  virginity,  thawed  out  his  awkward  re 
serve,  and  Dick  began  to  talk  of  the  West  and 
Western  life  until  the  nine  pairs  of  blue  eyes, 
stretched  to  their  widest,  fixed  upon  him  as  a 
common  focus.  It  was  eleven  when  he  left,  with 
many  apologies  for  his  long  call.  He  found  the 
night  and  the  street  uncommonly  dark,  empty 
and  depressing. 

"Just  the  outfit!"  he  observed  to  himself. 
"And  old  Bailey  dead  and  the  whole  scheme 
busted." 

For  he  had  learned  that  the  Nine  Cent-Girls 
had  not  a  relative  in  the  world.  Under  these 
circumstances,  it  was  clearly  his  duty  to  take 
the  morning  train  for  the  West.  And  yet,  the 
next  evening,  he  presented  himself,  shamefaced 
and  apologetic,  at  the  Bailey's  door. 


THE   NINE   CENT-GIRLS  99 

He  thought  that  he  wanted  to  make  some  sort 
of  explanation  to  Miss  Euphrosyne.  But  what 
explanation  could  he  make  1  There  was  no  earth 
ly  reason  for  his  appearance  in  Tusculum.  He 
talked  of  the  West  until  eleven  o'clock,  and 
then  he  took  a  hesitating  leave. 

The  next  day  he  made  a  weak  pretense  of 
casually  passing  by  when  he  knew  that  Miss 
Euphrosyne  was  working  in  the  garden;  but  he 
found  it  no  easier  to  explain  across  the  front 
fence.  The  explanation  never  would  have  been 
made  if  it  had  not  been  for  Miss  Euphrosyne. 
A  curious  nervousness  had  come  over  her,  too, 
and  suddenly  she  spoke  out. 

"Mr.  Cutter — excuse  me — but  what  has 
brought  you  here?  I  mean  is  it  anything  that 
concerns  us — or — or — Papa's  affairs!  I  thought 
everything  was  settled — I  had  hoped — " 

There  was  nothing  for  it  now  but  to  tell  the 
whole  story,  and  Dick  told  it. 

"I  suppose  you'll  think  we're  a  pack  of  bar 
barians,"  he  said,  when  he  had  come  to  the  end, 
"and,  of  course,  it's  all  impracticable  now." 

But  Miss  Euphrosyne  did  not  seem  to  be  of 
fended — only  thoughtful. 

"Can  you  call  here  to-morrow  at  this  time, 
Mr.  Cutter?"  she  inquired. 


Miss  Euphrosyne  blushed  faintly  when  Dick 
presented  himself  to  hear  judgment  pronounced. 


100  THE   NINE    CENT-GIRLS 

"I  suppose  you  will  think  it  strange,"  she 
said,  "but  if  your  plan  is  feasible,  I  should  wish 
to  carry  it  out.  Frankly,  I  do  want  to  see  the 
girls  married.  Clelia  and  Lydia  and  I  are  past 
the  time  when  women  think  about  such  things — 
but  Clytie — and  the  rest.  And,  you  know,  I  can 
remember  how  Papa  and  Mama  lived  together, 
and  sometimes  it  seems  cruelly  hard  that  those 
dear  girls  should  lose  all  that  happiness — I'm 
sure  it's  the  best  happiness  in  the  world.  And 
it  can  never  be,  here.  Now,  if  I  could  get  occu 
pation — you  know  that  I'm  teaching  school,  I 
suppose — and  if  the  rest  of  the  girls  could  keep 
up  their  work  for  the  New  York  people — why — 
don't  you  know,  if  I  didn't  tell — if  I  put  it  on 
business  grounds,  you  know — I  think  they  would 
feel  that  it  was  best,  after  all,  to  leave  Tuscu- 
lum  .  .  ." 

Her  voice  was  choked  when  she  recommenced. 

"It  seems  awful  for  me  to  talk  to  you  in  this 
cold-blooded  way  about  such  a  thing;  but — what 
can  we  do,  Mr.  Cutter?  You  don't  know  how 
poor  we  are.  There's  nothing  for  my  little 
Clytie  to  do  but  to  be  a  dressmaker — and  you 
know  what  that  means,  in  Tusculum.  Oh,  do  you 
think  I  could  teach  school  out  in  Star — Star — 
Starbuckle?" 

Miss  Euphrosyne  was  crying. 

Dick's  census  of  possible  pupils  in  the  neigh 
borhood  of  Starbuck  satisfied  Miss  Euphrosyne. 
It  troubled  Dick's  conscience  a  bit,  as  he  walked 
back  to  the  hotel.  "But  they'll  all  be  married 


THE  NINE   CENT-GIRLS  101 

off  before  she  finds  it  out,  so  I  guess  it's  all 
right,"  he  reflected. 


The  next  week  Dick  went  to  New  York.  This 
was  in  pursuance  of  an  idea  which  he  had  con 
fided  to  Winfield,  on  the  eve  of  his  forth-setting. 

"Why,"  Winfield  had  said  to  him,  "you  are 
clean  left  out  of  this  deal,  aren't  you?" 

"Of  course  I  am,"  said  Dick.  "How  am  I 
going  to  marry  a  poor  girl  on  a  hundred  dollars 
a  month?" 

"I  might  set  you  up  for  yourself — "  began 
his  employer. 

"Hold  on!"  broke  in  Dick  Cutter,  with  em 
phasis.  "You  wouldn't  talk  that  way  if  you'd 
ever  been  hungry  yourself.  I  'most  starved  that 
last  time  I  tried  for  myself;  and  I'd  starve  next 
trip,  sure.  You've  been  a  good  friend  to  me, 
Jack  Winfield.  Don't  you  make  a  damn  fool 
of  yourself  and  spoil  it  all." 

"But,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  "I  "have  a 
little  racket  of  my  own.  There's  a  widow  in 
New  York  who  smiled  on  yours  affectionately 
once,  ere  she  wed  Mammon.  I'm  going  just  to 
see  if  she  feels  inclined  to  divide  the  late  la 
mented 's  pile  with  a  blonde  husband." 

So,  the  business  at  Tusculum  being  determined, 
and  preparations  for  the  hegira  well  under  way, 
Dick  went  to  look  after  his  own  speculation. 

He  reached  New  York  on  Tuesday  morning, 
and  called  on  the  lady  of  his  hopes  that  after- 


104  THE   NINE    CENT-GIELS 

"If  they  show  in  Cleveland,  I'd  like  to  go9 
first  rate,"  the  Conductor  explained. 

"Those  ladies,"  Dick  thundered,  at  the  end  of 
his  patience,  "are  not  actresses!" 

"Hmf !  What  be  they  then!"  asked  the  Con 
ductor. 

*  •  *  •  •  •  • 

They  had  arrived  at  Buffalo.  They  had  gone 
to  the  Niagara  Hotel,  and  had  been  told  that 
there  were  no  rooms  for  them;  and  to  the  Tifft 
House,  where  there  were  no  rooms;  and  to  the 
Genesee,  where  every  room  was  occupied.  Final 
ly  they  had  found  quarters  in  a  very  queer  hotel, 
where  the  clerk,  as  he  dealt  out  the  keys,  said: 

"One  for  Lily,  and  one  for  Daisy  and  one  for 
Rosie — here,  Boss,  sort  out  the  flower-bed  your 
self,"  as  he  handed  over  the  bunch. 

Dick  was  taking  a  drink  in  the  dingy  bar-room, 
and  trying  to  forget  the  queer  looks  that  had 
been  cast  at  his  innocent  caravan  all  the  day, 
when  the  solitary  hall-boy  brought  a  message 
summoning  him  to  Miss  Euphrosyne 's  room. 
He  went,  with  his  moral  tail  between  his  mental 
legs. 

"Mr.  Cutter,"  said  Miss  Euphrosyne,  firmly, 
"we  have  made  a  mistake." 

"It  looks  that  way,"  replied  Dick,  feebly: 
"but  may  be  it's  only  the — the  ulsters." 

"No,"  said  Miss  Euphrosyne.  "The  ulsters 
are  a  part  of  it;  but  the  whole  thing  is  wrong 
Mr.  Cutter;  and  I  see  it  all  now.  I  didn't  real 
ize  what  it  meant.  But  my  eyes  have  been  opened. 


THE   NINE    CENT-GIRLS  105 

Nine  yonng  unmarried  women  cannot  go  West 
with  a  young  man — if  you  had  heard  what  people 
were  saying  all  around  us  in  the  cars — you  don't 
know.  We've  got  to  give  up  the  idea.  Oh,  but 
it  was  awful!" 

Miss  Euphrosyne,  trembling,  hid  her  face  in 
her  hands.  Her  tears  trickled  out  through  her 
thin  fingers. 

"And  the  old  house  is  sold!  What  shall  we 
do?  Where  shall  we  go?"  she  cried,  forgetting 
Dick  utterly,  lost  and  helpless. 

Dick  was  stalking  up  and  down  the  room. 

"It  would  be  all  right,"  he  demanded,  "if 
there  was  a  married  woman  to  lead  the  gang, 
and  if — if — if  we  caught  on  to  something  new  in 
the  ulster  line?" 

"It  might  be  different,"  Miss  Euphrosyne  ad 
mitted,  with  a  sob.  Speaking  came  hard  to  her. 
She  was  tired;  well  nigh  worn  out. 

"THEN,"  said  Dick,  with  tremendous  empha 
sis,  "what's  the  matter  with  my  marrying  one 
of  you?" 

"Wliy,  Mr.  Cutter!"  Miss  Euphrosyne  cried, 
"I  had  no  idea  that  you — you — ever — thought  of 
—is  it  Clytie?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Cutter,  "it  isn't  Clytie." 

"Is  it — is  it —  '  Miss  Euphrosyne 9s  eyes  lit  up 
with  hope  long  since  extinguished,  "is  it  Au 
rora?" 

"No!" 

Dick  Cutter  could  have  been  heard  three  rooms 
off. 


104  THE   NINE    CENT-GIRLS 

"If  they  show  in  Cleveland,  I'd  like  to  go, 
first  rate,"  the  Conductor  explained. 

" Those  ladies,"  Dick  thundered,  at  the  end  of 
his  patience,  "are  not  actresses!" 

"Hmf !  What  be  they  then?"  asked  the  Con 
ductor. 

•  •  •  •  *  •  • 

They  had  arrived  at  Buffalo.  They  had  gone 
to  the  Niagara  Hotel,  and  had  been  told  that 
there  were  no  rooms  for  them;  and  to  the  Tifft 
House,  where  there  were  no  rooms;  and  to  the 
Genesee,  where  every  room  was  occupied.  Final 
ly  they  had  found  quarters  in  a  very  queer  hotel, 
where  the  clerk,  as  he  dealt  out  the  keys,  said: 

"One  for  Lily,  and  one  for  Daisy  and  one  for 
Bosie — here,  Boss,  sort  out  the  flower-bed  your 
self,"  as  he  handed  over  the  bunch. 

Dick  was  taking  a  drink  in  the  dingy  bar-room, 
and  trying  to  forget  the  queer  looks  that  had 
been  cast  at  his  innocent  caravan  all  the  day. 
when  the  solitary  hall-boy  brought  a  message 
summoning  him  to  Miss  Euphrosyne 's  room, 
He  went,  with  his  moral  tail  between  his  mental 
legs. 

"Mr.  Cutter,"  said  Miss  Euphrosyne,  firmly, 
"we  have  made  a  mistake." 

"It  looks  that  way,"  replied  Dick,  feebly; 
"but  may  be  it's  only  the — the  ulsters." 

"No,"  said  Miss  Euphrosyne.  "The  ulsters 
are  a  part  of  it;  but  the  whole  thing  is  wrong 
Mr.  Cutter;  and  I  see  it  all  now.  I  didn't  real 
ize  what  it  meant.  But  my  eyes  have  been  opened 


THE   NINE    CENT-GIRLS  105 

Nine  yonng  unmarried  women  cannot  go  West 
with  a  young  man — if  you  had  heard  what  people 
were  saying  all  around  us  in  the  cars — you  don't 
know.  "We've  got  to  give  up  the  idea.  Oh,  but 
it  was  awful!" 

Miss  Euphrosyne,  trembling,  hid  her  face  in 
her  hands.  Her  tears  trickled  out  through  her 
thin  fingers. 

"And  the  old  house  is  sold!  What  shall  we 
do?  Where  shall  we  go?"  she  cried,  forgetting 
Dick  utterly,  lost  and  helpless. 

Dick  was  stalking  up  and  down  the  room. 

"It  would  be  all  right,"  he  demanded,  "if 
there  was  a  married  woman  to  lead  the  gang, 
and  if — if — if  we  caught  on  to  something  new  in 
the  ulster  line?" 

"It  might  be  different,"  Miss  Euphrosyne  ad 
mitted,  with  a  sob.  Speaking  came  hard  to  her. 
She  was  tired;  well  nigh  worn  out. 

"THEN,"  said  Dick,  with  tremendous  empha 
sis,  "what's  the  matter  with  my  marrying  one 
of  you?" 

"Wliy,  Mr.  Cutter!"  Miss  Euphrosyne  cried, 
"I  had  no  idea  that  you — you — ever — thought  of 
—is  it  Clytie?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Cutter,  "it  isn't  Clytie." 

"Is  it — is  it — "  Miss  Euphrosyne 's  eyes  lit  up 
with  hope  long  since  extinguished,  "is  it  Au 
rora?" 

"No!" 

Dick  Cutter  could  have  been  heard  three  rooms 
off. 


106  THE   NINE    CENT-GIRLS 

"No!"  he  said,  with  all  his  lungs.  "It  ain't 
Clytie,  nor  it  ain't  Aurora,  nor  it  ain't  Flora, 
nor  Melpomene  nor  Cybele  nor  Alveolar  Aureole 
nor  none  of  'em.  It's  YOU— Y-O-U!  I  want 
to  marry  you,  and  what's  more,  I'm  going  to!" 

"Oh!  oh!  oh!  oh!"  said  poor  Miss  Euphro 
syne,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  She  had 
never  thought  to  be  happy,  and  now  she  was 
happy  for  one  moment.  That  seemed  quite 
enough  for  her  modest  soul.  And  yet  more  was 
to  come. 

For  once  in  his  life,  Dick  Cutter  seized  the 
right  moment  to  do  the  right  thing.  One  hour 
later,  Miss  Euphrosyne  Bailey  was  Mrs.  Richard 
Cutter.  She  did  not  know  quite  how  it  hap 
pened.  Clytie  told  her  she  had  been  bullied 
into  it.  But  oh!  such  sweet  bullying! 


"No,"  said  Mr.  Richard  Cutter  one  morning 
in  September  of  the  next  year,  to  Mr.  Jack 
Winfield  and  his  wife  (Miss  Aurora  Bailey  that 
was),  "I  can't  stop  a  minute.  We're  too  busy 
up  at  the  ranch.  The  Wife  has  just  bought  out 
Wilkinson;  and  I've  got  to  round  up  all  his 
stock.  I'll  see  you  next  month,  at  Clytie 's  wed 
ding.  Queer,  she  should  have  gone  off  the  last, 
ain't  it?  Euphrosyne  and  I  are  going  down  to 
Butte  City  Monday,  to  buy  her  a  present.  Know 
anybody  who  wants  to  pay  six  per  cent,  for  a 
thousand?" 


THE   NICE    PEOPLE 

"f  |   AHEY  certainly  are  nice  people,"  I  as 
sented  to  my  wife's  observation,  nsing 
A       the  colloquial  phrase  with  a  conscious 
ness  that  it  was  any  thing  but  "nice"  English, 
"and  I'll  bet  that  their  three  children  are  better 
brought  up  than  most  of — " 

"Two  children,"  corrected  iny  wife. 

"Three,  he  told  me." 

"My  dear,  she  said  there  were  two." 

"He  said  three." 

"You've  simply  forgotten.  I'm  sure  she  told 
me  they  had  only  two — a  boy  and  a  girl." 

"Well,  I  didn't  enter  into  particulars." 

"No,  dear,  and  you  couldn't  have  understood 
him.  Two  children." 

"All  right,"  I  said;  but  I  did  not  think  it  was 
all  right.  As  a  near-sighted  man  learns  by  en 
forced  observation  to  recognize  persons  at  a  dis 
tance  when  the  face  is  not  visible  to  the  normal 
eye,  so  the  man  with  a  bad  memory  learns,  almost 
unconsciously,  to  listen  carefully  and  report  ac 
curately.  My  memory  is  bad ;  but  I  had  not  had 
time  to  forget  that  Mr.  Brewster  Brede  had  told 
me  that  afternoon  that  he  had  three  children,  at 
present  left  in  the  care  of  his  mother-in-law, 
while  he  and  Mrs.  Brede  took  their  Summer 
vacation. 

107 


108  THE   NICE   PEOPLE 

"Two  children,"  repeated  my  wife;  "and  they 
are  staying  with  his  aunt  Jenny." 

"He  told  me  with  his  mother-in-law,"  I  put 
in.  My  wife  looked  at  me  with  a  serious  expres 
sion.  Men  may  not  remember  much  of  what  they 
are  told  about  children;  but  any  man  knows  the 
difference  between  an  aunt  and  a  mother-in-law. 

"But  don't  you  think  they're  nice  people?" 
asked  my  wife. 

"Oh,  certainly,"  I  replied.  "Only  they  seem 
to  be  a  little  mixed  up  about  their  children. ' ' 

"That  isn't  a  nice  thing  to  say,"  returned  my 
wife.  I  could  not  deny  it. 


And  yet,  the  next  morning,  when  the  B redes 
came  down  and  seated  themselves  opposite  us 
at  table,  beaming  and  smiling  in  their  natural, 
pleasant,  wTell-bred  fashion,  I  knew,  to  a  social 
certainty,  that  they  were  "nice"  people.  He  was 
a  fine-looking  fellow  in  his  neat  tennis-flannels, 
slim,  graceful,  twenty-eight  or  thirty  years  old, 
with  a  Frenchy  pointed  beard.  She  was  "nice" 
in  all  her  pretty  clothes,  and  she  herself  was 
pretty  with  that  type  of  prettiness  which  out 
wears  most  other  types — the  prettiness  that  lies 
in  a  rounded  figure,  a  dusky  skin,  plump,  rosy 
cheeks,  white  teeth  and  black  eyes.  She  might 
have  been  twenty-five;  you  guessed  that  she  was 
prettier  than  she  was  at  twenty,  and  that  she 
would  be  prettier  still  at  forty. 

And  nice  people  were  all  we  wanted  to  make 


THE   NICE   PEOPLE  109 

us  happy  in  Mr.  Jacobus's  Summer  boarding- 
house  on  top  of  Orange  Mountain.    For  a  week 
we  had  come  down  to  breakfast  each  morning, 
wondering  why  we  wasted  the  precious  days  of 
idleness  with  the  company  gathered  around  the 
Jacobus  board.    What  joy  of  human  companion 
ship  was  to  be  had  out  of  Mrs.  Tabb  and  Miss 
Hoogencamp,  the  two  middle-aged  gossips  from 
Scranton,  Pa. — out  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Biggie,  an 
indurated   head-bookkeeper    and   his    prim   and 
censorious  wife — out  of  old  Major  Halkit,  a  re 
tired  business  man,  who,  having  once  sold  a  few 
shares   on   commission,   wrote   for   circulars   of 
every  stock  company  that  was  started,  and  tried 
to  induce  every  one  to  invest  who  would  listen 
to  him?    We  looked  around  at  those  dull  faces, 
the  truthful  indices  of  mean  and  barren  minds, 
and  decided  that  we  would  leave  that  morning. 
Then  we   ate   Mrs.   Jacobus's  biscuit,   light   as 
Aurora's  cloudlets,  drank  her  honest  coffee,  in 
haled  the  perfume  of  the  late  azaleas  with  which 
she  decked  her  table,  and  decided  to  postpone  our 
departure  one  more  day.    And  then  we  wandered 
out  to  take  our  morning  glance  at  what  we  called 
"our  view;"  and  it  seemed  to  us  as  if  Tabb  and 
Hoogencamp  and  Halkit  and  the  Biggleses  could 
not  drive  us  away  in  a  year. 

I  was  not  surprised  when,  after  breakfast,  my 
wife  invited  the  Bredes  to  walk  with  us  to  "our 
view."  The  Hoogencamp  -  Biggie  -  Tabb  -  Halkit 
contingent  never  stirred  off  Jacobus's  verandah; 
but  we  both  felt  that  the  Bredes  would  not  pro- 


110  THE   NICE   PEOPLE 

fane  that  sacred  scene.  "We  strolled  slowly  across 
the  fields,  passed  through  the  little  belt  of  woods, 
and  as  I  heard  Mrs.  Brede 's  little  cry  of  startled 
rapture,  I  motioned  to  Brede  to  look  up. 

"By  Jove!"  he  cried,  "heavenly!" 

We  looked  off  from  the  brow  of  the  mountain 
over  fifteen  miles  of  billowing  green,  to  where, 
far  across  a  far  stretch  of  pale  blue  lay  a  dim 
purple  line  that  we  knew  was  Staten  Island. 
Towns  and  villages  lay  before  us  and  under  us; 
there  were  ridges  and  hills,  uplands  and  low 
lands,  woods  and  plains,  all  massed  and  mingled 
in  that  great  silent  sea  of  sunlit  green.  For 
silent  it  was  to  us,  standing  in  the  silence  of  a 
high  place — silent  with  a  Sunday  stillness  that 
made  us  listen,  without  taking  thought,  for  the 
sound  of  bells  coming  up  from  the  spires  that 
rose  above  the  tree-tops — the  tree-tops  that  lay 
as  far  beneath  us  as  the  light  clouds  were  above 
us  that  dropped  great  shadows  upon  our  heads 
and  faint  specks  of  shade  upon  the  broad  sweep 
of  land  at  the  mountain's  foot. 

"And  so  that  is  your  view?"  asked  Mrs.  Brede, 
after  a  moment;  "you  are  very  generous  to  make 
it  ours,  too." 

Then  we  lay  down  on  the  grass,  and  Brede 
began  to  talk,  in  a  gentle  voice,  as  if  he  felt  the 
influence  of  the  place.  He  had  paddled  a  canoe, 
in  his  earlier  days,  he  said,  and  he  knew  every 
river  and  creek  in  that  vast  stretch  of  landscape. 
He  found  his  landmarks,  and  pointed  out  to  us 
Sphere  the  Passaic  and  the  Hackensack  flowed, 


THE   NICE   PEOPLE  111 

invisible  to  us,  hidden  behind  great  ridges  that 
in  our  sight  were  but  combings  of  the  green  waves 
upon  which  we  looked  down.  And  yet,  on  the 
further  side  of  those  broad  ridges  and  rises  were 
scores  of  villages — a  little  world  of  country  life, 
lying  unseen  under  our  eyes. 

"A  good  deal  like  looking  at  humanity/'  he 
said;  "there  is  such  a  thing  as  getting  so  far 
above  our  fellowmen  that  we  see  only  one  side 
of  them." 

Ah,  how  much  better  was  this  sort  of  talk  than 
the  chatter  and  gossip  of  the  Tabb  and  the  Hoo- 
gencamp — than  the  Major's  dissertations  upon  his 
everlasting  circulars!  My  wife  and  I  exchanged 
glances. 

"Now,  when  I  went  up  the  Matterhorn,"  Mr. 
Brede  began. 

"Why,  dear,"  interrupted  his  wife,  "I  didn't 
know  you  ever  went  up  the  Matterhorn." 

"It — it  was  five  years  ago,"  said  Mr.  Brede, 
hurriedly.  "I — I  didn't  tell  you — when  I  was 
on  the  other  side,  you  know — it  was  rather  dan 
gerous — well,  as  I  was  saying — it  looked — oh,  it 
didn't  look  at  all  like  this." 

A  cloud  floated  overhead,  throwing  its  great 
shadow  over  the  field  where  we  lay.  The  shadow 
passed  over  the  mountain's  brow  and  reappeared 
far  below,  a  rapidly  decreasing  blot,  flying  east 
ward  over  the  golden  green.  My  wife  and  I  ex 
changed  glances  once  more. 

Somehow,  the  shadow  lingered  over  us  all.  As 
we  went  home,  the  Bredes  went  side  by  side  along 


112  THE   NICE   PEOPLE 

the  narrow  path,  and  my  wife  and  I  walked  to 
gether. 

"Should  you  ihirik,"  she  asked  me,  "that  a 
man  would  climb  the  Matterhorn  the  very  first 
year  he  was  married?" 

"I  don't  know,  my  dear,"  I  answered,  evasive 
ly;  "this  isn't  the  first  year  I  have  been  married, 
not  by  a  good  many,  and  I  wouldn't  climb  it — for 
a  farm." 

"You  know  what  I  mean,"  she  said. 

I  did. 


When  we  reached  the  boarding-house,  Mr.  Ja 
cobus  took  me  aside. 

"You  know,"  he  began  his  discourse,  "my  wife 
she  used  to  live  in  N'  York!" 

I  didn't  know,  but  I  said  "Yes." 

"She  says  the  numbers  on  the  streets  runs 
criss-cross-like.  Thirty-four's  on  one  side  o'  the 
street  an'  thirty-five  on  t'other.  How's  that?" 

"That  is  the  invariable  rule,  I  believe." 

"Then — I  say — these  here  new  folk  that  you 
'n'  your  wife  seem  so  mighty  taken  up  with — d'ye 
know  anything  about  'em?" 

"I  know  nothing  about  the  character  of  your 
boarders,  Mr.  Jacobus,"  I  replied,  conscious  of 
some  irritability.  "If  I  choose  to  associate  with 
any  of  them — " 

"Jess  so — jess  so!"  broke  in  Jacobus.  "I 
hain't  nothin'  to  say  ag'inst  yer  sosherbil'ty. 
But  do  ye  know  them?" 


THE   NICE   PEOPLE  113 

"Why,  certainly  not/'  I  replied. 

"Well — that  was  all  I  wuz  askin'  ye.  Ye  see, 
when  lie  come  here  to  take  the  rooms — you  wasn't 
here  then — he  told  my  wife  that  he  lived  at  num 
ber  thirty-four  in  his  street.  An'  yistiddy  she 
told  her  that  they  lived  at  number  thirty-five. 
He  said  he  lived  in  an  apartment-house.  Now 
there  can't  be  no  apartment-house  on  two  sides 
of  the  same  street,  kin  they?" 

"What  street  was  it?"  I  inquired,  wearily. 

"Hunderd  'n'  twenty-first  street." 

"May  be,"  I  replied,  still  more  wearily. 
"That's  Harlem.  Nobody  knows  what  people 
will  do  in  Harlem." 

I  went  up  to  my  wife's  room. 

"Don't  you  think  it's  queer?"  she  asked  me. 

"I  think  I'll  have  a  talk  with  that  young  man 
to-night,"  I  said,  "and  see  if  he  can  give  some 
account  of  himself." 

"But,  my  dear,"  my  wife  said,  gravely,  "she 
doesn't  know  whether  they've  had  the  measles 
or  not." 

"Why,  Great  Scott!"  I  exclaimed,  "they  must 
have  had  them  when  they  were  children." 

"Please  don't  be  stupid,"  said  my  wife.  "I 
meant  their  children." 


After  dinner  that  night — or  rather,  after  sup 
per,  for  we  had  dinner  in  the  middle  of  the  day 
at  Jacobus's — I  walked  down  the  long  verandah 
to  ask  Brede,  who  was  placidly  smoking  at  the 


114  THE   NICE   PEOPLE 

other  end,  to  accompany  me  on  a  twilight  stroll. 
Half  way  down  I  met  Major  Halkit. 

"That  friend  of  yours,"  he  said,  indicating 
the  unconscious  figure  at  the  further  end  of  the 
house,  "  seems  to  be  a  queer  sort  of  a  Dick. 
He  told  me  that  he  was  out  of  business,  and 
just  looking  round  for  a  chance  to  invest  his 
capital.  And  I've  been  telling  him  what  an 
everlasting  big  show  he  had  to  take  stock  in 
the  Capitoline  Trust  Company — starts  next 
month — four  million  capital — I  told  you  all  about 
it.  'Oh,  well/  he  says,  'let's  wait  and  think 
about  it.'  'Wait!'  says  I,  'the  Capitoline  Trust 
Company  won't  wait  for  you,  my  boy.  This  is 
letting  you  in  on  the  ground  floor,'  says  I,  'and 
it's  now  or  never.'  'Oh,  let  it  wait,'  says  he. 
I  don't  know  what's  in-to  the  man." 

"I  don't  know  how  well  he  knows  his  own 
business,  Major,"  I  said  as  I  started  again  for 
Brede's  end  of  the  verandah.  But  I  was  trou 
bled  none  the  less.  The  Major  could  not  have 
influenced  the  sale  of  one  share  of  stock  in  the 
Capitoline  Company.  But  that  stock  was  a  great 
investment;  a  rare  chance  for  a  purchaser  with 
a  few  thousand  dollars.  Perhaps  it  was  no 
more  remarkable  that  Brede  should  not  invest 
than  that  I  should  not — and  yet,  it  seemed  to 
add  one  circumstance  more  to  the  other  sus 
picious  circumstances. 


When  I  went  upstairs  that  evening,  I  found 


THE   NICE   PEOPLE  115 

my  wife  putting  her  hair  to  bed — I  don't  know 
how  I  can  better  describe  an  operation  familiar 
to  every  married  man.  I  waited  until  the  last 
tress  was  coiled  up,  and  then  I  spoke: 

"I've  talked  with  Brede,"  I  said,  "and  I 
didn't  have  to  catechize  him.  He  seemed  to  feel 
that  some  sort  of  explanation  was  looked  for,  and 
he  was  very  outspoken.  You  were  right  about  the 
children — that  is,  I  must  have  misunderstood 
him.  There  are  only  two.  But  the  Matterhorn 
episode  was  simple  enough.  He  didn't  realize 
how  dangerous  it  was  until  he  had  got  so  far 
into  it  that  he  couldn't  back  out;  and  he  didn't 
tell  her,  because  he'd  left  her  here,  you  see,  and 
under  the  circumstances — " 

"Left  her  here!"  cried  my  wife.  "I've  been 
sitting  with  her  the  whole  afternoon,  sewing, 
and  she  told  me  that  he  left  her  at  Geneva,  and 
came  back  and  took  her  to  Basle,  and  the  baby 
was  born  there — now  I'm  sure,  dear,  because  I 
asked  her." 

"Perhaps  I  was  mistaken  when  I  thought  he 
said  she  was  on  this  side  of  the  water,"  I  sug 
gested,  with  bitter,  biting  irony. 

"You  poor  dear,  did  I  abuse  you?"  said  my 
wife.  "But,  do  you  know,  Mrs.  Tabb  said  that 
she  didn't  know  how  many  lumps  of  sugar  he 
took  in  his  coffee.  Now  that  seems  queer,  doesn't 
it." 

It  did.  It  was  a  small  thing.  But  it  looked 
queer.  Very  queer. 


116  THE   NICE   PEOPLE 

The  next  morning,  it  was  clear  that  war  was 
declared  against  the  Bredes.  They  came  down 
to  breakfast  somewhat  late,  and,  as  soon  as  they 
arrived,  the  Biggleses  swooped  up  the  last  frag 
ments  that  remained  on  their  plates,  and  made 
a  stately  march  out  of  the  dining-room.  Then 
Miss  Hoogencamp  arose  and  departed,  leaving 
a  whole  fish-ball  on  her  plate.  Even  as  Atalanta 
might  have  dropped  an  apple  behind  her  to 
tempt  her  pursuer  to  check  his  speed,  so  Miss 
Hoogencamp  left  that  fish-ball  behind  her,  and 
between  her  maiden  self  and  Contamination. 

We  had  finished  our  breakfast,  my  wife  and 
I,  before  the  Bredes  appeared.  We  talked  it 
over,  and  agreed  that  we  were  glad  that  we  had 
not  been  obliged  to  take  sides  upon  such  insuffi 
cient  testimony. 

After  breakfast,  it  was  the  custom  of  the  male 
half  of  the  Jacobus  household  to  go  around  the 
corner  of  the  building  and  smoke  their  pipes  and 
cigars  where  they  would  not  annoy  the  ladies. 
We  sat  under  a  trellis  covered  with  a  grape 
vine  that  had  borne  no  grapes  in  the  memory 
of  man.  This  vine,  however,  bore  leaves,  and 
these,  on  that  pleasant  Summer  morning,  shielded 
from  us  two  persons  who  were  in  earnest  con 
versation  in  the  straggling,  half-dead  flower- 
garden  at  the  side  of  the  house. 

"I  don't  want,"  we  heard  Mr.  Jacobus  say, 
"to  enter  in  no  man's  pry-vacy,  but  I  do  want 
to  know  who  it  may  be,  like,  that  I  hev  in  my 
house.  Now  what  I  ask  of  you,  and  I  don't 


THE   NICE   PEOPLE  117 

want  you  to  take  it  as  in  no  ways  personal,  is — 
hev  you  your  merridge-license  with  you?" 

"No,"  we  heard  the  voice  of  Mr.  Brede  reply. 
"Have  you  yours?" 

I  think  it  was  a  chance  shot;  but  it  told  all 
the  same.  The  Major  (he  was  a  widower)  and 
Mr.  Biggie  and  I  looked  at  each  other;  and  Mr. 
Jacobus,  on  the  other  side  of  the  grape-trellis, 
looked  at — I  don't  know  what — and  was  as  silent 
as  we  were. 

"Where  is  your  marriage-license,  married  read 
er?  Do  you  know?  Four  men,  not  including 
Mr.  Brede,  stood  or  sate  on  one  side  or  the  other 
of  that  grape-trellis,  and  not  one  of  them  knew 
where  his  marriage-license  was.  Each  of  us  had 
had  one — the  Major  had  had  three.  But  where 
were  they?  Where  is  yours?  Tucked  in  your 
best-man's  pocket;  deposited  in  his  desk — or 
washed  to  a  pulp  in  his  white  waistcoat  (if 
white  waistcoats  be  the  fashion  of  the  hour), 
washed  out  of  existence — can  you  tell  where 
it  is?  Can  you — unless  you  are  one  of  those 
people  who  frame  that  interesting  document  and 
hang  it  upon  .their  drawing-room  walls? 

Mr.  Brede 's  voice  arose,  after  an  awful  still 
ness  of  what  seemed  like  five  minutes,  and  was, 
probably,  thirty  seconds: 

"Mr.  Jacobus,  will  you  make  out  your  bill  at 
once,  and  let  me  pay  it?  I  shall  leave  by  the 
six  o'clock  train.  And  will  you  also  send  the 
wagon  for  my  trunks?" 


118  THE   NICE   PEOPLE 

"I  hain't  said  I  wanted  to  hev  ye  leave — " 
began  Mr.  Jacobus;  but  Brede  cut  him  short. 
1  i Bring  me  your  bill." 

"But,"  remonstrated  Jacobus,  "ef  ye  ain't — " 
"Bring  me  your  bill!"  said  Mr.  Brede. 


My  wife  and  I  went  out  for  our  morning's 
walk.  But  it  seemed  to  us,  when  we  looked  at 
"our  view,"  as  if  we  could  only  see  those  in 
visible  villages  of  which  Brede  had  told  us — 
that  other  side  of  the  ridges  and  rises  of  which 
we  catch  no  glimpse  from  lofty  hills  or  from 
the  heights  of  human  self-esteem.  We  meant  to 
stay  out  until  the  Bredes  had  taken  their  depar 
ture;  but  we  returned  just  in  time  to  see  Pete, 
the  Jacobus  darkey,  the  blacker  of  boots,  the 
brusher  of  coats,  the  general  handy-man  of  the 
house,  loading  the  Brede  trunks  on  the  Jacobus 
wagon. 

And,  as  we  stepped  upon  the  verandah,  down 
came  Mrs.  Brede,  leaning  on  Mr.  Brede 's  arm, 
as  though  she  were  ill;  and  it  was  clear  that  she 
had  been  crying.  There  were  heavy  rings  about 
her  pretty  black  eyes. 

My  wife  took  a  step  toward  her. 

"Look  at  that  dress,  dear,"  she  whispered; 
"she  never  thought  anything  like  this  was  going 
to  happen  when  she  put  tliat  on." 

It  was  a  pretty,  delicate,  dainty  dress,  a  grace 
ful,  narrow-striped  affair.  Her  hat  was  trimmed 
with  a  narrow-striped  silk  of  the  same  colors — 


THE   NICE   PEOPLE  119 

maroon  and  white — and  in  her  hand  she  held  a 
parasol  that  matched  her  dress. 

" She's  had  a  new  dress  on  twice  a  day,"  said 
my  wife ;  "but  that's  the  prettiest  yet.  Oh,  some 
how — I'm  awfully  sorry  they're  going!" 

But  going  they  were.  They  moved  toward  the 
steps.  Mrs.  Brede  looked  toward  my  wife,  and 
my  wife  moved  toward  Mrs.  Brede.  But  the 
ostracised  woman,  as  though  she  felt  the  deep 
humiliation  of  her  position,  turned  sharply  away, 
and  opened  her  parasol  to  shield  her  eyes  from 
the  sun.  A  shower  of  rice — a  half-pound  shower 
of  rice — fell  down  over  her  pretty  hat  and  her 
pretty  dress,  and  fell  in  a  spattering  circle  on 
the  floor,  outlining  her  skirts — and  there  it  lay 
in  a  broad,  uneven  band,  bright  in  the  morning 
sun. 

Mrs.  Brede  was  in  my  wife's  arms,  sobbing  as 
if  her  young  heart  would  break. 

"Oh,  you  poor,  dear,  silly  children!"  my  wife 
cried,  as  Mrs.  Brede  sobbed  on  her  shoulder, 
"why  didn't  you  tell  us?" 

"\V-W-W-We  didn't  want  to  be  t-t-taken  for 
a  b-b-b-b-bridal  couple,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Brede; 
"and  we  d-d-didn't  dream  what  awful  lies  we'd 
have  to  tell,  and  all  the  aw-aw-ful  mixed-up-ness 
of  it.  Oh,  dear,  dear,  dear!" 


"Pete!"  commanded  Mr.  Jacobus,  "put  back 
them  trunks.  These  folks  stays  here's  long's 
they  wants  ter.  Mr.  Brede — "  he  held  out  a 


120  THE   NICE   PEOPLE 

large,  hard  hand — "I'd  orter've  known  better," 
he  said.  And  my  last  doubt  of  Mr.  Brede  van 
ished  as  he  shook  that  grimy  hand  in  manly 
fashion. 

The  two  women  were  walking  off  toward  "our 
view,"  each  with  an  arm  about  the  other's  waist 
— touched  by  a  sudden  sisterhood  of  sympathy. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Brede,  addressing  Ja 
cobus,  Biggie,  the  Major  and  me,  "there  is  a 
hostelry  down  the  street  where  they  sell  honest 
New  Jersey  beer.  I  recognize  the  obligations 
of  the  situation." 

We  five  men  filed  down  the  street.  The  two 
women  went  toward  the  pleasant  slope  where  the 
sunlight  gilded  the  forehead  of  the  great  hill. 
On  Mr.  Jacobus's  verandah  lay  a  spattered 
circle  of  shining  grains  of  rice.  Two  of  Mr. 
Jacobus's  pigeons  flew  down  and  picked  up  the 
shining  grains,  making  grateful  noises  far  down 
in  their  throats. 


MR.  COPERNICUS  AND  THE 
PROLETARIAT 

THE  old  publishing  house  of  T.  Coper 
nicus  &  Son  was  just  recovering  from 
the  rush  of  holiday  business — a  rush  of 
perhaps  a  dozen  purchasers.  Christmas  shoppers 
rarely  sought  out  the  dingy  building  just  around 
the  corner  from  Astor  Place,  and  T.  C.  &  Son 
had  done  no  great  business  since  young  T.  C., 
the  "Son,"  died,  fifteen  years  before.  The  house 
lived  on  two  or  three  valuable  copyrights;  and 
old  Mr.  Copernicus  kept  it  alive  just  for  occu 
pation's  sake,  now  that  Tom  was  dead.  But  he 
liked  to  maintain  the  assumption  that  his  queer 
old  business,  with  its  publication  of  half-a-dozen 
scientific  or  theological  works  per  annum,  was 
the  same  flourishing  concern  that  it  had  been  in 
his  prime.  That  it  did  not  flourish  was  nothing 
to  him.  He  was  rich,  thanks  to  himself;  his  wife 
was  rich,  thanks  to  her  aunt;  his  daughter  was 
rich,  thanks  to  her  grandmother.  So  he  played 
at  business,  and  every  Christmas-time  he  bought 
a  lot  of  fancy  stationery  and  gift-books  that  no 
body  called  for,  and  hired  a  couple  of  extra 
porters  for  whom  the  head-porter  did  his  best 
to  find  some  work.  Then,  the  week  after  New 
Year's,  he  would  discharge  his  holiday  hands, 

121 


122  ME.    COPERNICUS 

and  give  each  of  them  a  dollar  or  two  apiece  ont 
of  his  own  pocket. 

"  Barney,"  he  said  to  the  old  porter,  "you 
don't  need  those  two  extra  men  any  longer?" 

"'Deed  an'  we  do  not,  sorr!"  said  Barney; 
"th'  wan  o'  thim  wint  off  av  himself  the  mornin', 
an'  t'other  do  be  readin'  books  the  whole  day 
long." 

"Send  him  to  me,"  Mr.  Copernicus  ordered, 
and  Barney  yelled  unceremoniously,  "Mike!" 

The  figure  of  a  large  and  somewhat  stout 
youth,  who  might  have  been  eighteen  or  twenty- 
eight  years  old,  appeared,  rising  from  the  sub- 
cellar.  His  hair  was  black,  his  face  was  clean 
shaven,  and  although  he  held  in  his  hand  the 
evidence  of  his  guilt,  a  book  kept  partly  open 
with  his  forefinger,  he  had  an  expression  of 
imperturbable  calm,  and  placid,  ox-like  fixity 
of  purpose.  He  wore  a  long,  seedy,  black  frock- 
coat,  buttoned  up  to  the  neck-band  of  his  collar- 
less  shirt. 

"How's  this?"  inquired  Mr.  Copernicus.  "I'm 
told  that  you  spend  your  time  reading  my  books.  '  ' 

The  young  man  slowly  opened  his  mouth  and 
answered  in  a  deliberate  drawl,  agreeably  diver 
sified  by  a  peculiar  stutter. 

"I  haven't  been  reading  your  b-b-books,  sir; 
I've  been  reading  my  own.  All  I  had  to  do  was 
to  hand  up  boxes  of  fuf-fuf-fancy  stationery, 
and—" 

I  see,"  interposed  Mr.  Copernicus,  hurriedly, 


" 


ME.   COPEENICUS  123 

"there  hasn't  been  any  very  great  call  for  fancy 
stationery  this  year." 

"And  when  there  wasn't  any  c-c-call  for  it,  I 
read.  I  ain't  going  to  be  a  pip-pip-porter  all  my 
life.  Would  youT' 

"Why,  of  course,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Coper 
nicus,  "if  you  are  reading  to  improve  your  mind, 
in  your  leisure  time — let's  see  your  book." 

The  young  man  handed  him  a  tattered  duo 
decimo. 

"Why,  it's  Virgil!"  exclaimed  his  employer. 
"You  can't  read  this." 

"Some  of  it  I  kik-kik-can, "  returned  the  em 
ployee,  "and  some  of  it  I  kik-kik-can 't." 

Mr.  Copernicus  sought  out  "Arma  virumque" 
and  "Tityre,  tu  patulse,"  and  one  or  two  other 
passages  he  was  sure  of,  and  the  studious  young 
porter  read  them  in  the  artless  accent  which  the 
English  attribute  to  the  ancient  Eomans,  and 
translated  them  with  sufficient  accuracy. 

"Where  did  you  learn  to  read  Latin?" 

"I  p-p-picked  it  up  in  odd  hours." 

"What  else  have  you  studied?" 

"A  little  Gig-Gig-Greek." 

"Anything  else?" 

"Some  algebra  and  some  Fif -Fif -French. " 

"Where  do  you  come  from?" 

"From  Baltimore,"  drawled  the  prodigy,  ut 
terly  unmoved  by  his  employer's  manifest  aston 
ishment.  "I  was  janitor  of  a  school  there,  and 
the  principal  lent  me  his  bib-bib-books." 

"What  is  your  name?" 


124  MB.    COPERNICUS 

*  *  M-M-Micliael  Quinlan. ' ' 

"And  what  was  your  father's  business?" 

"He  was  a  bib-bib-bricklayer,"  the  young  man 
replied  calmly,  adding,  reflectively,  "when  he 
wasn  't  did-did-drunk. ' ' 

"Bless  my  old  soul!"  said  Mr.  Copernicus  to 
himself,  "this  is  most  extraordinary!  I'll  see 
you  again,  young  man.  Barney!"  he  called  to  the 
head-porter,  "this  young  man  will  remain  with 
us  for  the  present." 

A  couple  of  days  later,  Mr.  Copernicus  sent 
for  Michael  Quinlan,  and  invited  him  to  call  at 
the  Copernicus  residence  on  Washington  Square, 
that  evening. 

"I  want  to  have  Professor  Barcalow  talk  with 
you,"  he  explained. 

At  the  hour  appointed,  Mr.  M.  Quinlan  pre 
sented  himself  at  the  basement  door  of  the  old 
house,  and  was  promptly  translated  to  the  li 
brary,  where  Professor  Barcalow,  once  President 
of  Clear  Creek  University,  Indiana,  rubbed  his 
bald  head  and  examined  the  young  man  at 
length. 

Quinlan  underwent  an  hour's  ordeal  without 
the  shadow  of  discomposure. 

He  drawled  and  stuttered  with  a  placid  face, 
whether  his  answers  were  right  or  wrong.  At 
the  end  of  the  hour,  the  Professor  gave  his 
verdict. 

"Our  young  friend,"  he  said,  "has  certainly 
done  wonders  for  himself  in  the  way  of  self- 
tuition.  He  is  almost  able — mind,  I  say  almost 


MB.    COPERNICUS  125 

— to  pass  a  good  Freshman  examination.  Of 
course,  he  is  not  thorough.  There  is  just  the 
same  difference,  Mr.  Copernicus,  between  the 
tuition  you  do  for  yourself  and  the  tuition  that 
you  receive  from  a  competent  teacher  as  there 
is  between  the  carpentering  you  do  for  yourself 
and  the  carpentering  a  regular  carpenter  does 
for  you.  I  can  see  the  marks  of  self -tuition  all 
over  this  young  man's  conversation.  He  has 
never  met  a  competent  instructor  in  his  life. 
But  he  has  done  very  well  for  himself — wonder 
fully  well.  He  is  entitled  to  great  credit.  Try 
to  remember,  Quinlan,  what  I  told  you  about 
the  use  of  the  ablative  absolute.'' 

Quinlan  said  he  would,  and  made  his  exit  by 
the  basement  door. 

"If  he  works  hard,"  remarked  the  Professor, 
"he  will  be  able  to  enter  Clear  Creek  by  June, 
and  work  his  way  through." 

"And  as  it  happens,"  said  Mr.  Copernicus, 
"I'm  going  to  lose  my  night-watchman  next 
week,  and  I  think  I'll  put  Quinlan  in.  And  then 
I've  been  thinking — there  are  all  poor  Tom's 
books  that  he  had  when  he  went  to  Columbia. 
I'll  let  the  boy  come  here  and  borrow  them,  and 
I  can  keep  an  eye  on  him  and  see  how  he's  get 
ting  along." 

"H'm!  yes,  of  course,"  the  Professor  assented 
hesitatingly,  dubious  of  Mr.  Copernicus 's  classics. 


'Well,  Barney,"   Mr.   Copernicus  hailed  his 


126  MB.    COPERNICUS 

head-porter  a  month  or  two  later,  "how  does  our 
new  night-watchman  do?" 

" Faith,  I've  seen  worse  than  him,"  said  Bar 
ney.  "He's  a  willing  lad." 

Barney's  heart  had  been  won.  He  came  down 
to  the  store  each  morning  and  found  that  Quin- 
lan  had  saved  him  the  trouble  of  taking  off  the 
long  sheets  of  cotton  cloth  that  protected  the 
books  on  the  counters  from  the  dust. 


Every  week  thereafter,  Quinlan  presented  him 
self  at  the  basement  door,  shabby,  but  no  longer 
collarless,  was  admitted  to  the  library,  by  way 
of  the  back-stairs,  and  received  from  Mrs.  Co 
pernicus  the  books  that  Mr.  Copernicus  had  set 
aside  for  him.  But  one  day  Mr.  Copernicus 
forgot  the  books,  and  Mrs.  Copernicus  asked  the 
young  man  into  the  parlor  to  explain  to  him 
how  it  had  happened.  When  she  had  explained, 
being  a  kindly  soul,  she  made  a  little  further 
conversation,  and  asked  Quinlan  some  questions 
about  his  studies.  Greek  was  Greek  indeed  to 
her;  but  when  he  spoke  of  French,  she  felt  as 
though  she  had  a  sort  of  second-hand  acquaint 
ance  with  the  language. 

"Floretta,"  she  said  to  her  daughter,  "talk 
to  Mr.  Quinlan  in  French,  and  find  out  how  much 
he  knows." 

Floretta  blushed.  She  was  a  wren-like  little 
thing,  with  soft  brown  hair,  rather  pretty,  and 
yet  the  sort  of  girl  whom  men  never  notice.  To 


MB.   COPERNICUS  127 

address  this  male  stranger  was  an  agony  to  her. 
But  she  knew  that  her  French  had  been  bought 
at  a  fashionable  boarding-school,  and  bought  for 
show,  and  her  mother  had  a  right  to  demand  its 
exhibition.  She  asked  M.  Quinlan  how  he  por 
trayed  himself,  and  M.  Quinlan,  with  no  more 
expression  on  his  face  than  a  Chinese  idol,  but 
with  a  fluency  checked  only  by  his  drawl  and 
his  stutter,  poured  forth  what  sounded  to  Mrs. 
Copernicus  like  a  small  oration. 

"What  did  he  say  then,  Floretta?"  she  de 
manded. 

' '  He  said  how  grateful  he  was  to  Papa  for  giv 
ing  him  such  a  chance,  and  how  he  wants  to  be 
a  teacher  when  he  knows  enough.  And,  oh, 
Mama,  he  speaks  ever  so  much  better  than  /  do." 

"Where  did  you  learn  to  speak  so  well?"  in 
quired  Mrs.  Copernicus,  incredulously. 

"I  lived  for  some  years  in  a  French  house, 
Ma'am.  At  least,  the  lady  of  the  house  was 
French,  and  she  never  spoke  anything  else." 

Beneficence  is  quick  to  develop  into  an  insidi 
ous  habit.  When  Mr.  Copernicus  heard  this  new 
thing  of  his  prodigy  and  protege,  a  new  idea 
came  to  him. 

"Old  Haverhill,  down  at  the  office,  speaks 
French  like  a  native.  I'll  let  him  feel  Quinlan 's 
teeth,  and  if  he  is  as  good  as  you  say  he  is, 
he'd  better  come  once  a  week  and  talk  French  to 
Floretta  for  an  hour.  You  can  sit  in  the  room. 
She  ought  to  keep  up  her  French." 

And  every  Wednesday,  from  four  to  five,  Mr. 


128  MR.    COPERNICUS 

Quinlan  and  Miss  Floretta  conversed,  Floretta 
blushing  ever,  Quinlan  retaining  his  idol-like 
stolidity.  Sometimes  the  dull  monotony  of  his 
drawl,  broken  only  by  his  regular  and  rhythmic 
stutter,  lulled  Mrs.  Copernicus  into  a  brief  nap 
over  her  book  or  her  fancy  work. 


Spring  had  come.  The  trees  had  brought  out 
their  pale  and  gauzy  green  veils,  the  beds  of 
tulips  and  Alpine  daisies  made  glad  spots  in  the 
parks,  and  Quinlan,  at  his  employer's  suggestion, 
had  purchased  a  ready-made  Spring  suit,  in 
which  he  looked  so  presentable  that  Mr.  Coper 
nicus  was  half-minded  to  ask  him  to  dinner. 

For  Mrs.  Copernicus  had  said  something  to 
Mr.  Copernicus  that  had  set  him  to  thinking  of 
many  things.  The  Chinese  idol  had  abated  no 
jot  of  his  stolidity,  and  yet — perhaps — he  had 
found  a  worshiper.  Floretta  began  blushing  of 
Wednesdays,  a  full  hour  before  the  lesson. 

What  was  to  come  of  it?  On  the  face  of  it,  it 
seemed  impossible.  A  Quinlan  and  a  Coperni 
cus!  And  yet — great-grandfather  Copernicus, 
who  founded  the  family  in  America — was  not 
he  a  carpenter?  And  did  not  his  descendants 
point  with  pride  to  his  self-made  solidity?  And 
here  was  native  worth;  high  ambition;  achieve 
ment  that  promised  more.  And  Floretta  was 
twenty-four,  and  had  never  had  an  offer. 
"What,"  inquired  Mr.  Copernicus  of  himself, 
"is  my  duty  toward  the  proletariat?" 


MR,    COPERNICUS  129 

One  thing  was  certain.  If  the  question  was  not 
settled  in  the  negative  at  once,  Quinlan  must  be 
educated.  So,  instead  of  inviting  Quinlan  to 
dinner,  he  invited  Mr.  Joseph  Mitts,  the  travel 
ing  agent  of  the  Hopkinsonian  Higher  Education 
Association,  who,  by  a  rare  chance,  was  in  town. 

Cynical  folk  said  that  the  Hopkinsonian  Asso 
ciation  existed  only  to  sell  certain  text-books  and 
curious  forms  of  stationery  which  were  neces 
sary  to  the  Hopkinsonian  system.  But  no  such 
idea  had  ever  entered  the  head  of  Mr.  Mitts. 
He  roamed  about  the  land,  introducing  the  Sys 
tem  wherever  he  could,  and  a  brisk  business 
agent  followed  him  and  sold  the  Hopkinsonian 
Blackboards  and  the  Hopkinsonian  Ink  and 
the  Hopkinsonian  Teachers'  Self-Examination 
Blanks,  on  commission. 

As  they  smoked  their  cigars  in  the  Library 
after  dinner,  Mr.  Copernicus  told  Mr.  Mitts 
about  Quinlan.  Mr.  Mitts  was  interested.  He 
knew  a  Professor  at  a  fresh-water  college  who 
would  put  Quinlan  through  his  studies  during 
the  vacation. 

"Well,  that's  settled/'  Mr.  Copernicus  said, 
and  he  beamed  with  satisfaction.  "I  knew  you'd 
help  me  out,  Mitts.  Only  it's  so  hard  ever  to 
get  a  sight  of  you — you  are  always  traveling 
about." 

"We  don't  often  meet,"  Mr.  Mitts  assented. 
"And  it  is  curious  that  this  visit  should  have 
been  the  means  of  giving  me  sight  of  a  man  in 
whom  I  want  to  interest  you.  His  name  is 


130  ME.   COPERNICUS 

Chester — Dudley  Winthrop  Chester.  He  is  the 
son  of  my  old  clergyman,  and  he  has  given  his 
parents  a  deal  of  trouble.  I  don't  know  that 
Dud  ever  was  vicious  or  dissolute.  But  he  was 
the  most  confirmed  idler  and  spendthrift  I  ever 
knew.  He  couldn't  even  get  through  college, 
and  he  never  would  do  a  stroke  of  work.  He 
made  his  father  pay  his  debts  half  a  dozen 
times,  and  when  that  was  stopped,  he  drifted 
away,  and  his  family  quite  lost  sight  of  him. 
I  met  him  in  Baltimore  last  year,  and  lent  him 
money  to  come  to  New  York.  He  said  he  was 
going  to  work.  And  just  as  I  came  in  your  front 
door,  I  saw  him  going  out  of  your  basement 
door  with  a  package  under  his  arm,  so  I  infer 
he  is  employed  by  one  of  your  trades-people — 
your  grocer,  perhaps." 

"Just  as  you  came  in?  Why — a  large,  dark- 
haired  young  man?" 

"Yes;  clean-shaven." 

"Why,  that  was  Quinlan!" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Mitts,  with  the  smile  of  supe 
rior  knowledge.  "It  was  Chester,  and  if  I'm 
not  mistaken,  he  was  kissing  the  cook." 

"Then  you  are  mistaken!"  cried  Mr.  Coper 
nicus;  "my  cook  is  as  black  as  the  ace  of  spades. 
There  isn't  a  white  servant  in  the  house." 

"Why,  that's  so!"  Mr.  Mitts  was  staggered 
for  the  moment.  "But — wait  a  minute — does 
your  man  Quinlan  speak  with  a  drawl,  and  just 
one  stutter  to  the  sentence?" 


MR.   COPEKNICUS  131 

"I  think  he  does,"  replied  his  host;  "but — " 

"Dudley  Chester!"  said  Mr.  Mitts. 

"But,  my  dear  Mitts,  where  did  he  get  the 
Latin  and  Greek?" 

"He  had  to  learn  something  at  Yale." 

"And  the  French?" 

"His  mother  was  a  French  Canadian.  That's 
where  he  gets  his  French — and  his  laziness." 

Mr.  Copernicus  made  one  last  struggle. 

"But  he  has  been  most  industrious  and  faith 
ful  in  my  employ." 

"What  is  he?" 

"My — my  night-wTatchman. " 

"Mr.  Copernicus,"  inquired  Mr.  Mitts,  "have 
you  a  watchman's  clock  in  your  building?" 

"No,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Copernicus,  indignantly. 
"I  have  none  of  those  degrading  new-fangled 
machines.  I  prefer  to  trust  my  employees." 

"Then  Dudley  Chester  is  asleep  in  your  store 
at  this  minute." 

•        ••••••• 

A  soft,  moist  breeze,  with  something  of  the 
sea  in  it,  blew  gently  in  at  an  open  window  of 
the  second  floor  of  the  business  establishment  of 
T.  Copernicus  &  Son.  Near  the  window  a  gas- 
jet  flickered.  Under  the  gas-jet,  on,  or  rather  in, 
a  bed  ingeniously  constructed  of  the  heaped-up 
covering-cloths  from  the  long  counters,  lay  Mr. 
Michael  Quinlan,  half-supported  on  his  left  elbow. 
In  his  other  hand  he  held,  half-open,  a  yellow- 
covered  French  novel.  Between  his  lips  was  a 
cigarette.  A  faint  shade  of  something  like  amuse- 


132  MR.    COPERNICUS 

ment  lent  expression  to  his  placid  features  as  he 
listened  to  Mr.  Copernicus  puffing  his  way  up 
the  stairs,  followed  by  Mr.  Mitts  and  Barney. 
The  hands  on  the  clock  pointed  to  eleven.  Mr. 
Quinlan 's  attire  was  appropriate  to  the  hour. 
He  wore  only  a  frayed  cotton  night-shirt.  His 
other  clothes  were  carelessly  disposed  about  his 
couch. 

He  waited  calmly  until  his  visitors  had  ap 
peared  before  him,  and  then  he  greeted  them 
with  a  gracious  wave  of  his  hand — an  easy  ges 
ture  that  seemed  to  dismiss  Quinlan  and  an 
nounce  Chester. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  drawled,  "you'll  excuse  my 
not  gig-gig-getting  up  to  welcome  you.  Ah,  Jo 
seph!  I  saw  you  this  evening,  and  I  supposed 
the  j-j-jig  was  up." 

Mr.  Copernicus  was  purple  and  speechless  for 
the  better  part  of  a  minute.  Then  he  demanded, 
in  a  husky  whisper: 

"Who  are  you?" 

Mr.  Chester,  with  nothing  of  the  Quinlan  left 
about  him,  waved  his  hand  once  more. 

"Mr.  Joseph  Mitts  is  a  gentleman  of  irre- 
pip-pip-proachable  veracity,"  he  said.  "I  can 
kik-kik-confidently  confirm  any  statements  he  has 
made  about  me." 

"And  why — "  Mr.  Copernicus  had  found  his 
voice — "why  have  you  humbugged  me  in  this 
iniquitous — infamous  wray?" 

The  late  Quinlan  gazed  at  him  with  blank  sur 
prise. 


MR.    COPERNICUS  133 

"My  dear  sir,  did-did-don 't  you  see?  If  I'd 
told  you  who  I  was,  you'd  have  thought  I  was 
a  did-did-damn  fool  not  to  know  more  than  I 
did.  Whereas,  don't  you  seel  you  thought  I 
was  a  did-did-devil  of  a  fellow." 

"Get  up  and  dress  yourself  and  get  out  of 
here!"  said  his  employer. 

"The  jig,  then,"  inquired  Mr.  Dudley  Chester, 
slowly  rising,  "is  did-did-defmitely  up?  No  more 
Fif-Fif-Freneh  lessons?  No?  Well,"  he  con 
tinued,  as  he  leisurely  pulled  on  his  trousers, 
"that's  the  kik-kik-cussed  inconsistency.  The 
j-j-jig  is  up  for  the  gentleman;  but  when  you 
thought  I  was  a  did-did-damn  Mick,  I  was  right 
in  the  bib-bib-bosom  of  the  blooming  family." 

"Here  are  your  week's  wages,"  said  Mr.  Co 
pernicus,  trembling  with  rage.  "Now,  get  out!" 

"Not  exactly,"  responded  the  unperturbed 
sinner;  "a  ticket  to  Chicago!" 

"I'm  afraid  you  had  best  yield,"  whispered 
Mr.  Mitts.  "Your  family,  you  know.  It  wouldn't 
do  to  have  this  get  out." 

Mr.  Copernicus  had  a  minute  of  purple  rage. 
Then  he  handed  the  money  to  Mr.  Mitts. 

"Put  him  on  the  train,"  he  said.  "There's 
one  at  twelve." 

"We  can  make  it  if  we  hurry,"  said  the 
obliging  Mr.  Mitts.  "Where's  your  lodging- 
house,  Chester?" 

Chester  opened  his  eyes  inquiringly.  "Why, 
this  is  all  I've  got,"  he  said;  "what's  the  mim- 
mim-matter  with  this?" 


134  MB.    COPERNICUS 

"But  your — your  luggage?"  inquired  Mr. 
Mitts. 

Mr.  Chester  waved  a  much-worn  tooth-brush 
in  the  air. 

"Man  wants  but  lil-lil-little  here  below,"  he 
remarked. 


see,"  explained  Mr.  Dudley  Winthrop 
Chester,  formerly  Quinlan,  as  he  stepped  out 
into  the  night  air  with  Mr.  Mitts,  "the  scheme 
is  bib-bib-busted  here,  but  I've  got  confidence 
in  it.  It's  good — it'll  gig-gig-go.  Chicago's  the 
pip-pip-place  for  me.  I  suppose  if  you  flash  up 
'amo,  amas'  to  a  Chicago  man,  he  thinks  you're 
Elihu  Burritt,  the  learned  bib-bib-blacksmith." 

"Aren't  you  tired  of  this  life  of  false  pre 
tences?"  asked  Mr.  Mitts,  sternly. 

"You  can  bib-bib-bet  I  am,"  responded  Ches 
ter,  frankly;  "I  haven't  said  a  cuss- word  in 
six  months.  Did-did-did-damn — damn — damn — 
damn!"  he  vociferated  into  the  calm  air  of 
night,  by  way  of  relieving  his  pent-up  feelings. 

"How  long  is  it,  Dudley,"  pursued  the  pa 
tient  Mitts,  "since  your  parents  heard  from 
you?" 

"Two  years,  I  gig-gig-guess,"  said  Chester. 
"By  Jove!"  he  added,  as  his  eye  fell  on  the 
blue  sign  of  a  telegraph  office,  "  did-did-damn 
if  I  don't  telegraph  them  right  now." 

Mr.  Mitts  was  deeply  gratified.  "That's  a 
good  idea,"  he  said. 


MR.   COPERNICUS  135 

"Lend  me  a  kik-kik-quarter, "  said  Dudley 
Chester. 

At  midnight  sharp,  Mr.  Mitts  saw  his  charge 
ascend  the  rear  platform  of  the  Chicago  train 
just  as  it  moved  out  of  the  gloomy  Jersey  City 
station  of  the  Pennsylvania  Railroad. 

A  young  woman  of  slight  figure,  with  a  veil 
about  her  face,  emerged  from  the  interior  of  the 
car  and  threw  her  arms  around  the  neck  of 
Mr.  Chester,  late  Quinlan. 

"I  thought  I  wasn't  mistaken,"  said  Mr.  Mitts 
to  himself. 

The  next  week  he  received  an  envelope  con 
taining  a  scrap  roughly  torn  out  of  a  daily 
paper.  It  read  as  follows: 

MARRIL 

.3CHOFF.— At   tL. 

//  tbe  Rev.  Dr.  Krotej. 

BISCHOFT.  daughter  ot 

off.   to  THEODORE    BRECBINO.    of   O»n*bro*».-. 
many. 

OHESlER-COPERNlC0S.-At  the  rectory  of  th« 
Church  of  St.  Jaao8  the  Greater,  by  tho  Rev.  Dr. 
'Wilson  Wilson,  I).  D..  FLOBETTA.  daughter  of 
Thomas  Copernicus,  of  New  York,  to  EUDLKY 


CHESTEB.  of  Baltimore.  Md.    No  cards. 


Marriwe  «•         -xh  no*          ~~v»       *  -»d,  without 
extra  char  Uher  the 

London  "— », 


Bt 


And  yet,  within  six  months,  Mr.  Mitts  re 
ceived  cards.  They  bade  him  to  a  reception 
given  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chester  at  the  house  of 
Mr.  Thomas  Copernicus. 

"7  couldn't  have  done  that,"  said  Mitts  to 
himself. 


HECTOR 

IT  was  such  a  quiet  old  home,  so  comfortably 
covered  with  wistaria  from  basement  to 
chimney-tops,  and  it  stood  on  the  corner 
of  two  such  quiet,  old-fashioned  streets  on  the 
East  Side  of  New  York  that  you  would  never 
have  imagined  that  it  held  six  of  the  most  agi 
tated  and  perturbed  women  in  the  great  city. 
But  the  three  Miss  Pellicoes,  their  maid,  their 
waitress  and  their  cook,  could  not  have  been 
more  troubled  in  their  feminine  minds  had  they 
been  six  exceptionally  attractive  Sabines  with 
the  Roman  soldiery  in  full  cry. 

For  twenty  years — ever  since  the  death  of  old 
Mr.  Pellicoe — these  six  women  had  lived  in  mor 
tal  fear  of  the  marauding  man,  and  the  Man  had 
come  at  last.  That  very  evening,  at  a  quarter 
past  eight  o'clock,  a  creature  who  called  himself 
a  book-agent  had  rung  the  front  door  bell.  Ho- 
nora,  the  waitress,  had  opened  the  door  a  couple 
of  inches,  inquired  the  stranger's  business, 
learned  it,  told  him  to  depart,  tried  to  close 
the  door,  and  discovered  that  the  man  had  in 
serted  his  toe  in  the  opening.  She  had  closed 
the  door  violently,  and  the  man  had  emitted  a 
single  oath  of  deep  and  sincere  profanity.  He 
had  then  kicked  the  door  and  departed,  with  a 
marked  limp. 

136 


HECTOR  137 

At  least  this  was  the  story  as  Honora  first 
related  it.  But  as  she  stood  before  the  assem 
bled  household  and  recounted  it  for  the  seventh 
time,  it  had  assumed  proportions  that  left  no 
room  for  the  charitable  hypothesis  that  an  in 
nocent  vender  of  literature  had  been  the  hapless 
victim  of  his  own  carelessness  or  clumsiness. 

"And  whin  he  had  the  half  of  his  big  ugly 
bod}7  in  the  crack  o'  th'  dure,"  she  said,  in 
excited  tones  and  with  fine  dramatic  action,  "and 
him  yellin'  an'  swearin'  and  cussin*  iv'ry  holy 
name  he  could  lay  his  black  tongue  to,  and  me  six 
years  cook  in  a  convent,  and  I  t'rew  th*  whole 
weight  o'  me  on  th'  dure,  an' — 

"That  will  do,  Honora,"  said  Miss  Pellicoe, 
who  was  the  head  of  the  household.  She  per 
ceived  that  the  combat  was  deepening  too  rapid 
ly.  "You  may  go.  We  will  decide  what  is  to 
be  done." 

And  Miss  Pellicoe  had  decided  what  was  to 
be  done. 

"Sisters,"  she  said  to  her  two  juniors,  "we 
must  keep  a  dog." 

"A  dog!"  cried  Miss  Angela,  the  youngest; 
"oh,  how  nice!" 

"I  do  not  think  it  is  nice  at  all,"  said  Miss 
Pellicoe,  somewhat  sternly,  "nor  would  you, 
Angela,  if  you  had  any  conception  of  what  it 
really  meant.  I  do  not  propose  to  keep  a  lap- 
dog,  or  a  King  Charles  spaniel,  but  a  dog — a 
mastiff,  or  a  bloodhound,  or  some  animal  of  that 


138  HECTOE 

nature,  such  as  would  spring  at  the  throat  of 
an  invader,  and  bear  him  to  the  ground!" 

"Oh,  dear!"  gasped  Miss  Angela.  "I  should 
be  afraid  of  him!" 

"You  do  not  understand  as  yet,  Angela,"  Miss 
Pellicoe  explained,  knitting  her  brows.  "My 
intention  is  to  procure  the  animal  as  a — in  fact — 
a  puppy,  and  thus  enable  him  to  grow  up  and  to 
regard  us  with  affection,  and  be  willing  to  hold 
himself  at  all  times  in  readiness  to  afford  us 
the  protection  we  desire.  It  is  clearly  impos 
sible  to  have  a  man  in  the  house.  I  have  de 
cided  upon  a  mastiff." 

When  Miss  Pellicoe  decided  upon  a  thing,  Miss 
Angela  Pellicoe  and  her  other  sister  promptly 
acquiesced.  On  this  occasion  they  did  not,  even 
in  their  inmost  hearts,  question  the  wisdom  of 
the  decision  of  the  head  of  the  house.  A  man, 
they  knew,  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  For  twenty 
years  the  Pellicoe  house  had  been  a  bower  of 
virginity.  The  only  men  who  ever  entered  it 
were  the  old  family  doctor,  the  older  family 
lawyer,  and  annually,  on  New  Year's  Day,  in 
accordance  with  an  obsolete  custom,  Major  Kit- 
sedge,  their  father's  old  partner,  once  junior  of 
the  firm  of  Pellicoe  &  Kitsedge.  Not  even  the 
butcher  or  the  baker  or  the  candlestick-maker 
forced  an  entrance  to  that  innocent  dovecote. 
They  handed  in  their  wares  through  a  wicket- 
gate  in  the  back  yard  and  were  sent  about  their 
business  by  the  chaste  Honora. 

The  next  morning,  having  awakened  to  find 


HECTOR  139 

themselves  and  the  silver  still  safe,  Miss  Pellicoe 
and  Miss  Angela  set  out  for  a  dog  store  which 
they  had  seen  advertised  in  the  papers.  It  was  in 
an  unpleasantly  low  and  ill-bred  part  of  the  town, 
and  when  the  two  ladies  reached  it,  they  paused 
outside  the  door,  and  listened,  with  lengthened 
faces,  to  the  combined  clamor  and  smell  that  ema 
nated  from  its  open  door. 

"This,"  said  Miss  Pellicoe,  after  a  brief  delib 
eration,  "is  not  a  place  for  us.  If  we  are  to  pro 
cure  a  dog,  he  must  be  procured  in  some  other 
way.  It  need  not  entail  a  loss  of  self-respect. 

"I  have  it!"  she  added  with  a  sudden  inspira 
tion.  "I  will  write  to  Hector." 

Hector  was  the  sole  male  representative  of  the 
Pellicoe  family.  He  was  a  second  cousin  of  the 
Misses  Pellicoe.  He  lived  out  West — his  address 
varying  from  year  to  year.  Once  in  a  long  while 
Miss  Pellicoe  wrote  to  him,  just  to  keep  herself 
in  communication  with  the  Man  of  the  family.  It 
made  her  feel  more  secure,  in  view  of  possible 
emergencies.  She  had  not  seen  Hector  since  he 
was  nineteen.  He  was  perhaps  the  last  person 
of  any  positive  virility  who  had  had  the  freedom 
of  the  Pellicoe  household.  He  had  used  that  free 
dom  mainly  in  making  attempts  to  kiss  Honora, 
who  was  then  in  her  buxom  prime,  and  in  decor 
ating  the  family  portraits  with  cork  moustaches 
and  whiskers.  Miss  Pellicoe  clung  to  the  Man  of 
the  family  as  an  abstraction ;  but  she  was  always 
glad  that  he  lived  in  the  West.  Addressing  him 
in  his  capacity  of  Man  of  the  family,  she  wrote 


140  HECTOR 

to  him  and  asked  him  to  supply  her  with  a  young 
mastiff,  and  to  send  her  bill  therefor.  She  ex 
plained  the  situation  to  him,  and  made  him  under 
stand  that  the  dog  must  be  of  a  character  to  be 
regarded  as  a  male  relative. 

Hector  responded  at  once.  He  would  send  a 
mastiff  pup  within  a  w^eek.  The  pup's  pedigree 
was,  unfortunately,  lost,  but  the  breed  was  high. 
Fifty  dollars  would  cover  the  cost  and  expenses 
of  transportation.  The  pup  was  six  months  old. 

For  ten  days  the  Pellicoe  household  was  in  a 
fever  of  expectation.  Miss  Pellicoe  called  in  a 
carpenter,  and,  chaperoned  by  the  entire  house 
hold,  held  an  interview  with  him,  and  directed 
him  how  to  construct  a  dog-house  in  the  back-yard 
— a  dog-house  with  one  door  about  six  inches 
square,  to  admit  the  occupant  in  his  innocent  pup- 
hood,  and  with  another  door  about  four  feet  in 
height  to  emit  him,  when,  in  the  pride  of  his  ma 
ture  masculinit}7,  he  should  rush  forth  upon  the 
burglar  and  the  book-agent.  The  carpenter  re 
marked  that  he  "  never  seen  no  such  a  dorg  as 
that;"  but  Miss  Pellicoe  thought  him  at  once 
ignorant  and  ungrammatical,  and  paid  no  heed 
to  him. 

In  conclave  assembled,  the  Misses  Pellicoe  de 
cided  to  name  the  dog  Hector.  Besides  the  con 
sideration  of  the  claims  of  gratitude  and  family 
affection,  they  remembered  that  Hector  was  a 
classical  hero. 

The  ten  days  came  to  an  end  when,  just  at  dusk 
of  a  dull  January  day,  two  stalwart  expressmen, 


HECTOR  141 

with  much  open  grumbling  and  smothered  curs 
ing,  deposited  a  huge  packing-case  in  the  vestibule 
of  the  Pellicoe  house,  and  departed,  slamming  the 
doors  behind  them.  From  this  box  proceeded 
such  yelps  and  howls  that  the  entire  household 
rushed  affrighted  to  peer  through  the  slats  that 
gridironed  the  top.  Within  was  a  mighty  black 
beast,  as  high  as  a  table,  that  flopped  itself  wildly 
about,  clawed  at  the  sides  of  the  box,  and  swung 
in  every  direction  a  tail  as  large  as  a  policeman's 
night-club. 

It  was  Hector.  There  was  no  mistake  about  it, 
for  Mr.  Hector  Pellicoe 's  card  was  nailed  to  a 
slat.  It  was  Hector,  the  six-months-old  pup,  for 
whose  diminutive  proportions  the  small  door  in 
the  dog-house  had  been  devised ;  Hector,  for  whom 
a  saucer  of  lukewarm  milk  was  even  then  waiting 
by  the  kitchen  range. 

"Oh,  Sister  I"  cried  Miss  Angela,  "we  never 
can  get  him  out !  You'll  have  to  send  for  a  man!" 

"I  certainly  shall  not  send  for  a  man  at  this 
hour  of  the  evening,"  said  Miss  Pellicoe,  white, 
but  firm;  "and  I  shall  not  leave  the  poor  creature 
imprisoned  during  the  night."  Here  Hector 
yawped  madly. 

"I  shall  take  him  out,"  exclaimed  Miss  Pelli 
coe,  "myself!" 

They  hung  upon  her  neck,  and  entreated  her 
not  to  risk  her  life ;  but  Miss  Pellicoe  had  made  up 
her  mind.  The  three  maids  shoved  the  box  into 
the  butler's  pantry,  shrieking  with  terror  every 
time  that  Hector  leaped  at  the  slats,  and  at  last, 


142  HECTOR 

with  the  two  younger  Pellicoes  holding  one  door 
a  foot  open,  and  the  three  maids  holding  the  other 
door  an  inch  open,  Miss  Pellicoe  seized  the  house 
hold  hatchet,  and  began  her  awful  task.  One  slat ! 
Miss  Pellicoe  was  white  but  firm.  Two  slats! 
Miss  Pellicoe  was  whiter  and  firmer.  Three  slats ! 
— and  a  vast  black  body  leaped  high  in  the  air. 
With  five  simultaneous  shrieks,  the  two  doors 
were  slammed  to,  and  Miss  Pellicoe  and  Hector 
were  left  together  in  the  butler's  pantry. 

The  courage  of  the  younger  Pellicoes  asserted 
itself  after  a  moment,  and  they  flung  open  the 
pantry  door.  Miss  Pellicoe,  looking  as  though 
she  needed  aromatic  vinegar,  leaned  against  the 
wall.  Hector  had  his  fore-paws  on  her  shoul 
ders,  and  was  licking  her  face  in  exuberant  affec 
tion. 

11  Sisters/'  gasped  Miss  Pellicoe,  "will  you 
kindly  remove  him?  I  should  like  to  faint." 

But  Hector  had  already  released  her  to  dash 
at  Miss  Angela,  who  frightened  him  by  going  into 
such  hysterics  that  Miss  Pellicoe  was  obliged  to 
deny  herself  the  luxury  of  a  faint.  Then  he  found 
the  maids,  and,  after  driving  them  before  him 
like  chaff  for  five  minutes,  succeeded  in  convinc 
ing  Honora  of  the  affectionate  purpose  of  his 
demonstrations,  and  accepted  her  invitation  to 
the  kitchen,  where  he  emptied  the  saucer  of  milk 
in  three  laps. 

"I  think,  Honora, "  suggested  Miss  Pellicoe, 
who  had  resumed  command,  "that  you  might,  per 
haps,  give  him  a  slice  or  two  of  last  night's  leg 


HECTOR  143 

of  mntton.  Perhaps  he  needs  something  more 
sustaining." 

Honora  produced  the  mutton-leg.  It  was  clearly 
what  Hector  wanted.  He  took  it  from  her  with 
out  ceremony,  bore  it  under  the  sink  and  ate  all 
of  it  except  about  six  inches  of  the  bone,  which 
he  took  to  bed  with  him. 

The  next  day,  feeling  the  need  of  masculine  ad 
vice,  Miss  Pellicoe  resolved  to  address  herself 
to  the  policeman  on  the  beat,  and  she  astonished 
him  with  the  following  question : 

"Sir,"  she  said,  in  true  Johnsonian  style,  "what 
height  should  a  mastiff  dog  attain  at  the  age  of 
six  months?" 

The  policeman  stared  at  her  in  utter  aston 
ishment. 

"They  do  be  all  sizes,  Mum,"  he  replied, 
blankly,  "like  a  piece  of  cheese." 

"My  relative  in  the  West,"  explained  Miss 
Pellicoe,  "has  sent  me  a  dog,  and  I  am  given  to 
understand  that  his  age  is  six  months.  As  he  is 
phenomenally  large,  I  have  thought  it  best  to  seek 
for  information.  Has  my  relative  been  imposed 
upon?" 

"It's  har-r-rd  to  tell,  Mum,"  replied  the  police 
man,  dubiously.  Then  his  countenance  brightened. 
"Does  his  feet  fit  him?"  he  inquired. 

"What — what  do  you  mean?"  asked  Miss  Pel 
licoe,  shrinking  back  a  little. 

"Is  his  feet  like  blackin '-boxes  on  th'  ind  of 
his  legs?" 

"They  are  certainly  very  large." 


144  HECTOE 

"Thin  'tis  a  pup.  You  see,  Mum,  with  a  pup, 
'tis  this  way.  The  feet  starts  first,  an'  the  pup 
grows  up  to  'em,  like.  Av  they  match  him,  he's 
grown.  Av  he  has  arctics  on,  he's  a  pup." 


Hector's  growth  in  the  next  six  months  dissi 
pated  all  doubts  as  to  his  puphood.  He  became 
a  four-legged  Colossus,  martial  toward  cats,  ag 
gressive  toward  the  tradesmen  at  the  wicket-gate, 
impartially  affectionate  toward  all  the  household, 
and  voracious  beyond  all  imagining.  But  he 
might  have  eaten  the  gentle  ladies  out  of  house 
and  home,  and  they  would  never  have  dreamed 
of  protesting.  The  house  had  found  a  Head — 
even  a  Head  above  Miss  Pellicoe. 

The  deposed  monarch  gloried  in  her  subjection. 
She  said  "Hector  likes  this,"  or  "Hector  likes 
that,"  with  the  tone  of  submissive  deference  in 
which  you  may  hear  a  good  wife  say,  ' '  Mr.  Smith 
will  not  eat  cold  boiled  mutton,"  or  "Mr.  Smith 
is  very  particular  about  his  shirt-bosoms." 

As  for  Miss  Angela,  she  never  looked  at  Hector, 
gamboling  about  the  back-yard  in  all  his  super 
abundance  of  strength  and  vitality,  without  feel 
ing  a  half-agreeable  nervous  shock,  and  a  flutter 
of  the  heart.  He  stood  for  her  as  the  type  of  that 
vast  outside  world  of  puissant  manhood  of  which 
she  had  known  but  two  specimens — her  father  and 
Cousin  Hector.  Perhaps,  in  the  old  days,  if  Cousin 
Hector  had  not  been  so  engrossed  in  frivolity  and 
making  of  practical  jokes,  he  might  have  learned 


HECTOR  145 

of  something  to  his  advantage.     But  he  never 
did. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Miss  Angela  found 
herself  left  to  watch  the  house  through  the  horrors 
of  the  Fourth  of  July.  This  had  always  been  Miss 
Pellicoe  's  duty ;  but  this  year  Miss  Pellicoe  failed 
to  come  back  from  the  quiet  place  in  the  Catskills, 
where  no  children  were  admitted,  and  where  the 
Pellicoe  family,  two  at  a  time,  spent  the  Summer 
in  the  society  of  other  old  maids  and  of  aged 
widows. 

"I  feel  that  you  are  safe  with  Hector,"  she 
wrote. 

Alack  and  alack  for  Miss  Pellicoe 's  faith  in 
Hector !  The  first  fire-cracker  filled  him  with  ex 
citement,  and  before  the  noises  of  the  day  had 
fairly  begun,  he  was  careering  around  the  yard, 
barking  in  uncontrollable  frenzy.  At  twelve 
o'clock,  when  the  butcher-boy  came  with  the  chops 
for  luncheon,  Hector  bounded  through  the  open 
wicket,  right  into  the  arms  of  a  dog-catcher.  Miss 
Angela  wrung  her  hands  as  she  gazed  from  her 
window  and  saw  the  Head  of  the  House  cast  into 
the  cage  with  a  dozen  curs  of  the  street  and  driven 
rapidly  off. 

In  her  lorn  anguish  she  sought  the  functionary 
who  was  known  in  the  house  as  "Miss  Pellicoe 's 
policeman." 

*  *  Be  aisy,  Miss, ' '  he  said.  ' l  Av  the  dog  is  worth 
five  dollars,  say,  to  yez,  I  have  a  friend  will  get 
him  out  for  th'  accommodation." 


146  HECTOR 

' '  Oh,  take  it,  take  it ! ' '  cried  Miss  Angela,  trem 
bling  and  weeping. 


After  six  hours  of  anxious  waiting,  Miss  Angela 
received  Hector  at  the  front  door,  from  a  boy  who 
turned  and  fled  as  soon  as  his  mission  was  ac 
complished.  Hector  was  extremely  glad  to  be  at 
home,  and  his  health  seemed  to  be  unimpaired; 
but  to  Miss  Angela's  delicate  fancy,  contact  with 
the  vulgar  of  his  kind  had  left  a  vague  aroma  of 
degradation  about  him.  With  her  own  hands  she 
washed  him  in  tepid  water  and  sprinkled  him 
with  eau  de  cologne.  And  even  then  she  could 
not  help  feeling  that  to  some  extent  the  bloom 
had  been  brushed  from  the  peach. 


Hector  was  ill — very  ill.  The  family  conclave 
assembled  every  night  and  discussed  the  situation 
with  knit  brows  and  tearful  eyes.  They  could  not 
decide  whether  the  cause  of  his  malady  was  the 
unwholesomeness  of  the  Summer  air  in  the  city, 
or  whether  it  was  simply  over-feeding.  He  was 
certainly  shockingly  fat,  and  much  indisposed  to 
exertion.  He  had  lost  all  his  activity;  all  his 
animal  spirits.  He  spent  most  of  the  time  in  his 
house.  Even  his  good-nature  was  going.  He  had 
actually  snapped  at  Honora.  They  had  tried  to 
make  up  their  minds  to  reduce  his  rations;  but 
their  hearts  had  failed  them.  They  had  hoped 
that  the  cool  air  of  September  would  help  him; 


HECTOR  147 

but  September  was  well  nigh  half  gone;  and 
Hector  grew  worse  and  worse. 

" Sisters,"  said  Miss  Pellieoe,  at  last,  "we  shall 
have  to  send  for  a  Veterinary!"  She  spoke  as 
though  she  had  just  decided  to  send  for  an  execu 
tioner.  And  even  as  the  words  left  her  lips  there 
came  from  Hector  such  a  wail  of  anguish  that 
Miss  Pellicoe 's  face  turned  a  ghastly  white. 

"He  is  going  mad!"  she  cried. 

There  was  no  sleep  in  the  Pellicoe  household 
that  night,  although  Hector  wailed  no  more.  At 
the  break  of  day,  Miss  Pellicoe  led  five  other  white- 
faced  women  into  the  back  yard. 

Hector's  head  lay  on  the  sill  of  his  door.  He 
seemed  too  weak  to  rise,  but  he  thrashed  his  tail 
pleasantly  against  the  walls,  and  appeared  amiable 
and  even  cheerful.  The  six  advanced. 

Miss  Pellicoe  knelt  down  and  put  her  hand  in 
to  pet  him.  Then  a  strange  expression  came 
over  her  face. 

"Sister,"  she  said,  "I  think — a  cat  has  got  in 
and  bitten  him." 

She  closed  her  hand  on  something  soft,  lifted 
it  out  and  laid  it  on  the  ground.  It  was  small, 
it  was  black,  it  was  dumpy.  It  moved  a  round 
head  in  an  uncertain,  inquiring  way,  and  tried 
to  open  its  tightly-closed  eyes.  Then  it  squeaked. 

Thrice  more  did  Miss  Pellicoe  thrust  her  hand 
into  the  house.  Thrice  again  did  she  bring  out 
an  object  exactly  similar. 

"Wee-e-e-e!"  squeaked  the  four  objects.  Hec 
tor  thrashed  her  tail  about  and  blinked  joyfully, 


148  HECTOR 

all  unconscious  of  the  utter  wreck  of  her  mascu 
linity,  looking  as  though  it  were  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world  for  her  to  have  a  litter  of 
pups — as,  indeed,  it  was. 

Honora  broke  the  awful  silence — Miss  Angela 
was  sobbing  so  softly  you  could  scarcely  hear 
her. 

"Be  thim  Hectors?'*  Honora  inquired. 

"Honora!"  said  Miss  Pellicoe,  rising,  "never 
utter  that  name  in  my  presence  again." 

"An  fwat  shall  I  call  the  dog?" 

"Call  it" — and  Miss  Pellicoe  made  a  pause 
of  impressive  severity,  "call  it — Andromache." 


A    SISTERLY    SCHEME 

AWAY  up  in  the  very  heart  of  Maine 
there  is  a  mighty  lake  among  the  moun 
tains.  It  is  reached  after  a  journey  of 
many  hours  from  the  place  where  you  "go  in." 
That  is  the  phrase  of  the  country,  and  when 
you  have  once  "gone  in,"  you  know  why  it  is 
not  correct  to  say  that  you  have  gone  through 
the  woods,  or,  simply,  to  your  destination.  You 
find  that  you  have  plunged  into  a  new  world — a 
world  that  has  nothing  in  common  with  the 
world  that  you  live  in;  a  world  of  wild,  solemn, 
desolate  grandeur,  a  world  of  space  and  silence; 
a  world  that  oppresses  your  soul — and  charms 
you  irresistibly.  And  after  you  have  once  "come 
out"  of  that  world,  there  will  be  times,  to  the 
day  of  your  death,  when  you  will  be  homesick 
for  it,  and  will  long  with  a  childlike  longing  to 
go  back  to  it. 

Up  in  this  wild  region  you  will  find  a  fash 
ionable  Summer  hotel,  with  electric  bells  and 
seven-course  dinners,  and  "guests"  who  dress 
three  times  a  day.  It  is  perched  on  a  little  flat 
point,  shut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  mainland 
by  a  huge  rocky  cliff.  It  is  an  impertinence 
in  that  majestic  wilderness,  and  Leather-Stock 
ing  would  doubtless  have  had  a  hankering  to 
burn  such  an  affront  to  Nature;  but  it  is  a 

149 


150  A   SISTERLY   SCHEME 

good  hotel,  and  people  go  to  it  and  breathe 
the  generous  air  of  the  great  woods. 

On  the  beach  near  this  hotel,  where  the  canoes 
were  drawn  up  in  line,  there  stood  one  Summer 
morning  a  curly-haired,  fair  young  man — not  so 
very  young,  either — whose  cheeks  were  uncom 
fortably  red  as  he  looked  first  at  his  own  canoe, 
high  and  dry,  loaded  with  rods  and  landing-net 
and  luncheon-basket,  and  then  at  another  canoe, 
fast  disappearing  down  the  lake,  wherein  sat 
a  young  man  and  a  young  woman. 

"Dropped  again,  Mr.  Morpeth?" 

The  young  man  looked  up  and  saw  a  saucy 
face  laughing  at  him.  A  girl  was  sitting  on  the 
string-piece  of  the  dock.  It  was  the  face  of  a 
girl  between  childhood  and  womanhood.  By  the 
face  and  the  figure,  it  was  a  woman  grown.  By 
the  dress,  you  would  have  judged  it  a  girl. 

And  you  would  have  been  confirmed  in  the 
latter  opinion  by  the  fact  that  the  young  person 
was  doing  something  unpardonable  for  a  young 
lady,  but  not  inexcusable  in  the  case  of  a  youth 
ful  tomboy.  She  had  taken  off  her  canvas  shoe, 
and  was  shaking  some  small  stones  out  of  it. 
There  was  a  tiny  hole  in  her  black  stocking, 
and  a  glimpse  of  her  pink  toe  was  visible.  The 
girl  was  sunburnt,  but  the  toe  was  prettily  pink. 

"Your  sister, "  replied  the  young  man  with 
dignity,  "was  to  have  gone  fishing  with  me;  but 
she  remembered  at  the  last  moment  that  she  had 
a  prior  engagement  with  Mr.  Brown." 

"She  hadn't,"  said  the  girl.    "I  heard  them 


A   SISTERLY    SCHEME  151 

make  it  up  last  evening,  after  you  went  up 
stairs." 

The  young  man  clean  forgot  himself. 

" She's  the  most  heartless  coquette  in  the 
world!"  he  cried,  and  clinched  his  hands. 

"She  is  all  that,"  said  the  young  person  on 
the  string-piece  of  the  dock,  "and  more,  too. 
And  yet,  I  suppose,  you  want  her  all  the  same?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  do,"  said  the  young  man,  mis 
erably. 

"Well,"  said  the  girl,  putting  her  shoe  on 
again,  and  beginning  to  tie  it  up,  "I'll  tell  you 
what  it  is,  Mr.  Morpeth.  You've  been  hanging 
around  Pauline  for  a  year,  and  you  are  the  only 
one  of  the  men  she  keeps  on  a  string  who  hasn't 
snubbed  me.  Now,  if  you  want  me  to,  I'll  give 
you  a  lift." 

"A— a— what?" 

"A  lift.  You're  wasting  your  time.  Pauline 
has  no  use  for  devotion.  It's  a  drug  in  the  mar 
ket  with  her — has  been  for  five  seasons.  There's 
only  one  way  to  get  her  worked  up.  Two  fel 
lows  tried  it,  and  they  nearly  got  there;  but 
they  weren't  game  enough  to  stay  to  the  bitter 
end.  I  think  you're  game,  and  I'll  tell  you. 
You've  got  to  make  her  jealous." 

"Make  her  jealous  of  me1?" 

"No!"  said  his  friend,  with  infinite  scorn; 
"make  her  jealous  of  the  other  girl.  Oh!  but 
you  men  are  stupid!" 

The  young  man  pondered  a  moment. 

"Well,  Flossy,"  he  began,  and  then  he  became 


152  A    SISTEELY    SCHEME 

conscious  of  a  sudden  change  in  the  atmosphere, 
and  perceived  that  the  young  lady  was  regarding 
him  with  a  look  that  might  have  chilled  his 
soul. 

"Miss  Flossy — Miss  Belton — "  he  hastily  cor 
rected  himself.  Winter  promptly  changed  to 
Summer  in  Miss  Flossy  Belton 's  expressive  face. 

"Your  scheme,"  he  went  on,  "is  a  good  one. 
Only — it  involves  the  discovery  of  another  girl." 

"Yes,"  assented  Miss  Flossy,  cheerfully. 

"Well,"  said  the  young  man,  "doesn't  it  strike 
you  that  if  I  were  to  develop  a  sudden  admira 
tion  for  any  one  of  these  other  young  ladies 
whose  charms  I  have  hitherto  neglected,  it  would 
come  tardy  off — lack  artistic  verisimilitude,  so  to 
speak?" 

"Kather,"  was  Miss  Flossy 's  prompt  and 
frank  response;  "especially  as  there  isn't  one 
of  them  fit  to  flirt  with." 

"Well,  then,  where  am  I  to  discover  the  girl?" 

Miss  Flossy  untied  and  retied  her  shoe.  Then 
she  said,  calmly: 

"What's  the  matter  with — "  a  hardly  percep 
tible  hesitation— "me?" 

"With  you?"  Mr.  Morpeth  was  startled  out 
of  his  manners. 

"Yes." 

Mr.  Morpeth  simply  stared. 

"Perhaps,"  suggested  Miss  Flossy,  "I'm  not 
good-looking  enough?" 

"You  are  good-looking  enough,"  replied  Mr. 
Morpeth,  recovering  himself,  "for  any  tiling — " 


A   SISTERLY   SCHEME  153 

and  he  threw  a  convincing  emphasis  into  the 
last  word  as  he  took  what  was  probably  his  first 
real  inspection  of  his  adored  one's  junior — "but 
— aren't  you  a  trifle — young?" 

"How  old  do  you  suppose  I  am?" 

"I  know.  Your  sister  told  me.  You  are  six 
teen.  ' ' 

"Sixteen!"  repeated  Miss  Flossy,  with  an 
infinite  and  uncontrollable  scorn,  "yes,  and  I'm 
the  kind  of  sixteen  that  stays  sixteen  till  your 
elder  sister's  married.  I  was  eighteen  years 
old  on  the  third  of  last  December — unless  they 
began  to  double  on  me  before  I  was  old  enough 
to  know  the  difference — it  would  be  just  like 
Mama  to  play  it  on  me  in  some  such  way,"  she 
concluded,  reflectively. 

"Eighteen  years  old!"  said  the  young  man. 
"The  deuce!"  Do  not  think  that  he  was  an 
ill-bred  young  man.  He  was  merely  astonished, 
and  he  had  much  more  astonishment  ahead  of 
him.  He  mused  for  a  moment. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "what's  your  plan  of  cam 
paign?  I  am  to — to  discover  you." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Flossy,  calmly,  "and  to  flirt 
with  me  like  fun." 

"And  may  I  ask  what  attitude  you  are  to  take 
when  you  are — discovered?" 

"Certainly,"  replied  the  imperturbable  Flos 
sy.  "I  am  going  to  dangle  you." 

"To— to  dangle  me?" 

"As  a  conquest,  don't  you  know.  Let  you 
hang  around  and  laugh  at  you." 


154  A   SISTERLY    SCHEME 

"Oh,  indeed!" 

"There,  don't  be  wounded  in  your  masculine 
pride.  You  might  as  well  face  the  situation. 
You  don't  think  that  Pauline's  in  love  with  you, 
do  you?" 

"No!"  groaned  the  young  man. 

"But  you've  got  lots  of  money.  Mr.  Brown 
has  got  lots  more.  You're  eager.  Brown  is  coy. 
That's  the  reason  that  Brown  is  in  the  boat 
and  you  are  on  the  cold,  cold  shore,  talking  to 
Little  Sister.  Now  if  Little  Sister  jumps  at  you, 
why,  she's  simply  taking  Big  Sister's  leavings; 
it's  all  in  the  family,  any  way,  and  there's  no 
jealousy,  and  Pauline  can  devote  her  whole  mind 
to  Brown.  There,  don't  look  so  limp.  You  men 
are  simply  childish.  Now,  after  you've  asked  me 
to  marry  you — " 

"Oh,  I'm  to  ask  you  to  marry  me?" 

"Certainly.  You  needn't  look  frightened,  now. 
I  won't  accept  you.  But  then  you  are  to  go 
around  like  a  wet  cat,  and  mope,  and  hang  on 
worse  than  ever.  Then  Big  Sister  will  see  that 
she  can't  afford  to  take  that  sort  of  thing  from 
Little  Sister,  and  then — there's  your  chance." 

"Oh,  there's  my  chance,  is  it?"  said  Mr.  Mor- 
peth.  He  seemed  to  have  fallen  into  the  habit 
of  repetition. 

"There's  your  only  chance,"  said  Miss  Flossy, 
with  decision. 

Mr.  Morpeth  meditated.  He  looked  at  the 
lake,  where  there  was  no  longer  sign  or  sound 
of  the  canoe,  and  he  looked  at  Miss  Flossy,  who 


A   SISTERLY    SCHEME  155 

sat  calm,  self-confident  and  careless,  on  the 
string-piece  of  the  dock. 

"I  don't  know  how  feasible — "  he  began. 

"It's  feasible,"  said  Miss  Flossy,  with  de 
cision.  "Of  course,  Pauline  will  write  to  Mama, 
and  of  course  Mama  will  write  and  scold  me. 
But  she's  got  to  stay  in  New  York,  and  nurse 
Papa's  gout;  and  the  Miss  Redingtons  are  all 
the  chaperons  we've  got  up  here,  and  they  don't 
amount  to  anything — so  I  don't  care." 

"But  why,"  inquired  the  young  man;  and  his 
tone  suggested  a  complete  abandonment  to  Miss 
Flossy 's  idea;  "why  should  you  take  so  much 
trouble  for  me?" 

"Mr.  Morpeth,"  said  Miss  Flossy,  solemnly, 
"I'm  two  years  behind  the  time-table,  and  I've 
got  to  make  a  strike  for  liberty,  or  die.  And 
besides,"  she  added,  "if  you  are  nice,  it  needn't 
be  such  an  awful  trouble." 

Mr.  Morpeth  laughed. 

"I'll  try  to  make  it  as  little  of  a  bore  as  pos 
sible,"  he  said,  extending  his  hand.  The  girl 
did  not  take  it. 

"Don't  make  any  mistake,"  she  cautioned  him, 
searching  his  face  with  her  eyes;  "this  isn't  to 
be  any  little-girl  affair.  Little  Sister  doesn't 
want  any  kind,  elegant,  supercilious  encourage 
ment  from  Big  Sister's  young  man.  It's  got  to 
be  a  real  flirtation — devotion  no  end,  and  ten 
times  as  much  as  ever  Pauline  could  get  out 
of  you — and  you've  got  to  keep  your  end  'way 
— 'way — 'way  up!" 


156  A    S1STEKLY    SCHEME 

The  young  man  smiled. 

"Ill  keep  my  end  up,"  he  said;  "but  are  you 
certain  that  you  can  keep  yours  up?" 

"Well,  I  think  so,"  replied  Miss  Flossy. 
"Pauline  will  raise  an  awful  row;  but  if  she 
goes  too  far,  I'll  tell  my  age,  and  Ifiers,  too." 

Mr.  Morpeth  looked  in  Miss  Flossy 's  calm 
face.  Then  he  extended  his  hand  once  more. 

"It's  a  bargain,  so  far  as  I'm  concerned," 
he  said. 

This  time  a  soft  and  small  hand  met  his  with 
a  firm,  friendly,  honest  pressure. 

"And  I'll  refuse  you,"  said  Miss  Flossy. 


Within  two  weeks,  Mr.  Morpeth  found  himself 
entangled  in  a  flirtation  such  as  he  had  never 
dreamed  of.  Miss  Flossy 's  scheme  had  suc 
ceeded  only  too  brilliantly.  The  whole  hotel 
was  talking  about  the  outrageous  behavior  of 
"that  little  Belton  girl"  and  Mr.  Morpeth,  who 
certainly  ought  to  know  better. 

Mr.  Morpeth  had  carried  out  his  instructions. 
Before  the  week  was  out,  he  found  himself  giv 
ing  the  most  lifelike  imitation  of  an  infatuated 
lover  that  ever  delighted  the  old  gossips  of  a 
Summer  resort.  And  yet  he  had  only  done  what 
Flossy  told  him  to  do. 

He  got  his  first  lesson  just  about  the  time 
that  Flossy,  in  the  privacy  of  their  apartments, 
informed  her  elder  sister  that  if  she,  Flossy, 
found  Mr.  Morpeth 's  society  agreeable,  it  was 


A   SISTERLY   SCHEME  157 

nobody's  concern  but  her  own,  and  that  she  was 
prepared  to  make  some  interesting  additions 
to  the  census  statistics  if  any  one  thought  dif 
ferently. 

The  lesson  opened  his  eyes. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "that  it  wouldn't 
be  a  bit  of  a  bad  idea  to  telegraph  to  New  York 
for  some  real  nice  candy  and  humbly  present 
it  for  my  acceptance?  I  might  take  it — if  the 
bonbonniere  was  pretty  enough." 

He  telegraphed  to  New  York  and  received,  in 
the  course  of  four  or  five  days,  certain  marvels 
of  sweets  in  a  miracle  of  an  upholstered  box. 
The  next  day  he  found  her  on  the  verandah, 
flinging  the  bonbons  on  the  lawn  for  the  children 
to  scramble  for. 

"Awfully  nice  of  you  to  send  me  these  things," 
she  said  languidly,  but  loud  enough  for  the  men 
around  her  to  hear — she  had  men  around  her 
already:  she  had  been  discovered — "but  I  never 
eat  sweets,  you  know.  Here,  you  little  mite  in 
the  blue  sash,  don't  you  want  this  pretty  box 
to  put  your  doll's  clothes  in?" 

And  Maillard's  finest  bonbonniere  went  to  a 
yellow-haired  brat  of  three. 

But  this  was  the  slightest  and  lightest  of  her 
caprices.  She  made  him  send  for  his  dog-cart 
and  his  horses,  all  the  way  from  New  York,  only 
that  he  might  drive  her  over  the  ridiculous  little 
mile-and-a-half  of  road  that  bounded  the  tiny 
peninsula.  And  she  christened  him  "Muffets," 
a  nickname  presumably  suggested  by  "Mor- 


158  A   SISTERLY   SCHEME 

peth";  and  she  called  him  "Muffets"  in  the 
hearing  of  all  the  hotel  people. 

And  did  such  conduct  pass  unchallenged?  No. 
Pauline  scolded,  raged,  raved.  She  wrote  to 
Mama.  Mama  wrote  back  and  reproved  Flossy. 
But  Mama  could  not  leave  Papa.  His  gout  was 
worse.  The  Miss  Eedingtons  must  act.  The 
Miss  Redingtons  merely  wept,  and  nothing  more. 
Pauline  scolded;  the  flirtation  went  on;  and  the 
people  at  the  big  hotel  enjoyed  it  immensely. 

And  there  was  more  to  come.  Four  weeks 
had  passed.  Mr.  Morpeth  was  hardly  on  speak 
ing  terms  with  the  elder  Miss  Belton;  and  with 
the  younger  Miss  Belton  he  was  on  terms  which 
the  hotel  gossips  characterized  as  "simply  scan 
dalous."  Brown  glared  at  him  when  they  met, 
and  he  glared  at  Brown.  Brown  was  having  a 
hard  time.  Miss  Belton  the  elder  was  not  pleas 
ant  of  temper  in  those  trying  days. 

"And  now,"  said  Miss  Flossy  to  Mr.  Morpeth, 
"it's  time  you  proposed  to  me,  Muffets." 

They  were  sitting  on  the  hotel  verandah,  in 
the  evening  darkness.  No  one  was  near  them, 
except  an  old  lady  in  a  Shaker  chair. 

"There's  Mrs.  Melby.  She's  pretending  to  be 
asleep,  but  she  isn't.  She's  just  waiting  for  us. 
Now  walk  me  up  and  down  and  ask  me  to  marry 
you  so  that  she  can  hear  it.  It'll  be  all  over 
the  hotel  inside  of  half  an  hour.  Pauline  will 
just  rage." 

With  this  pleasant  prospect  before  him,  Mr. 
Morpeth  marched  Miss  Flossy  Belton  up  and 


A   SISTERLY   SCHEME  159 

down  the  long  verandah.  He  had  passed  Mrs. 
Melby  three  times  before  he  was  able  to  say,  in 
a  choking,  husky,  uncertain  voice: 

"Flossy— I— I— I  love  you!" 

Flossy 's  voice  was  not  choking  nor  uncertain. 
It  rang  out  clear  and  silvery  in  a  peal  of 
laughter. 

"Why,  of  course  you  do,  Muffets,  and  I  wish 
you  didn't.  That's  what  makes  you  so  stupid 
half  the  time." 

"But — "  said  Mr.  Morpeth,  vaguely;  "but 
I—" 

"But  you're  a  silly  boy,"  returned  Miss  Flos 
sy;  and  she  added  in  a  swift  aside:  "You  haven't 
asked  me  to  marry  you!" 

"W-W-W-Will  you  be  my  wife?"  stammered 
Mr.  Morpeth. 

"No!"  said  Miss  Flossy,  emphatically,  "I  will 
not.  You  are  too  utterly  ridiculous.  The  idea 
of  it!  No,  Muffets,  you  are  charming  in  your 
present  capacity;  but  you  aren't  to  be  consid 
ered  seriously." 

They  strolled  on  into  the  gloom  at  the  end 
of  the  great  verandah. 

"That's  the  first  time,"  he  said,  with  a  feel 
ing  of  having  only  the  ghost  of  a  breath  left  in 
his  lungs,  "that  I  ever  asked  a  woman  to  marry 
me." 

"I  should  think  so,"  said  Miss  Flossy,  "from 
the  way  you  did  it.  And  you  were  beautifully 
rejected,  weren't  you?  Now — look  at  Mrs.  Mel- 


160  A   SISTERLY   SCHEME 

by,  will  you?    She's  scudding  off  to  spread  the 
news." 

And  before  Mr.  Morpeth  went  to  bed,  he  was 
aware  of  the  fact  that  every  man  and  woman 
in  the  hotel  knew  that  he  had  "proposed"  to 
Flossy  Belton,  and  had  been  "beautifully  re 
jected." 


Two  sulky  men,  one  sulky  woman,  and  one 
girl  radiant  with  triumphant  happiness  started 
out  in  two  canoes,  reached  certain  fishing-grounds 
known  only  to  the  elect,  and  began  to  cast  for 
trout.  They  had  indifferent  luck.  Miss  Belton 
and  Mr.  Brown  caught  a  dozen  trout;  Miss 
Flossy  Belton  and  Mr.  Morpeth  caught  eigh 
teen  or  nineteen,  and  the  day  was  wearing  to  a 
close.  Miss  Flossy  made  the  last  cast  of  the 
day,  just  as  her  escort  had  taken  the  paddle. 
A  big  trout  rose — just  touched  the  fly — and  dis 
appeared. 

"It's  this  wretched  rod!"  cried  Miss  Flossy; 
and  she  rapped  it  on  the  gunwale  of  the  canoe 
so  sharply  that  the  beautiful  split-bamboo  broke 
sharp  off  in  the  middle  of  the  second  joint. 
Then  she  tumbled  it  overboard,  reel  and  all. 

"I  was  tired  of  that  rod,  anyway,  Muffets," 
she  said;  "row  me  home,  now;  I've  got  to  dress 
for  dinner." 

Miss  Flossy 's  elder  sister,  in  the  other  boat, 
saw  and  heard  this  exhibition  of  tyranny;  and 
she  was  so  much  moved  that  she  stamped  her 


A   SISTERLY   SCHEME  161 

small  foot,  and  endangered  the  bottom  of  the 
canoe.  She  resolved  that  Mama  should  come 
back,  whether  Papa  had  the  gout  or  not. 

Mr.  Morpeth,  wearing  a  grave  expression,  was 
paddling  Miss  Flossy  toward  the  hotel.  He  had 
said  nothing  whatever,  and  it  was  a  noticeable 
silence  that  Miss  Flossy  finally  broke. 

"YouVe  done  pretty  much  everything  that  I 
wanted  you  to  do,  Muffets,"  she  said;  "but  you 
haven't  saved  my  life  yet,  and  I'm  going  to  give 
you  a  chance." 

It  is  not  difficult  to  overturn  a  canoe.  One 
twist  of  Flossy 's  supple  body  did  it,  and  before 
he  knew  just  what  had  happened,  Morpeth  was 
swimming  toward  the  shore,  holding  up  Flossy 
Belton  with  one  arm,  and  fighting  for  life  in 
the  icy  water  of  a  Maine  lake. 

The  people  were  running  down,  bearing  blan 
kets  and  brandy,  as  he  touched  bottom  in  his 
last  desperate  struggle  to  keep  the  two  of  them 
above  water.  One  yard  further,  and  there  would 
have  been  no  strength  left  in  him. 

He  struggled  up  on  shore  with  her,  and  when 
he  got  breath  enough,  he  burst  out: 

"Why  did  you  do  it?  It  was  wicked!  It  was 
cruel!" 

"There!"  she  said,  as  she  reclined  composedly 
in  his  arms,  "that  will  do,  Muffets.  I  don't 
want  to  be  scolded." 

A  delegation  came  along,  bringing  blankets 
and  brandy,  and  took  her  from  him. 


162  A   SISTERLY   SCHEME 

At  five  o'clock  of  that  afternoon,  Mr.  Morpeth 
presented  himself  at  the  door  of  the  parlor 
attached  to  the  apartments  of  the  Belton  sis 
ters.  Miss  Belton,  senior,  was  just  coming  out 
of  the  room.  She  received  his  inquiry  after 
her  sister's  health  with  a  white  face  and  a 
quivering  lip. 

"I  should  think,  Mr.  Morpeth,"  she  began, 
"that  you  had  gone  far  enough  in  playing  with 
the  feelings  of  a  m-m-mere  child,  and  that — oh! 
I  have  no  words  to  express  my  contempt  for 
you!" 

And  in  a  most  unladylike  rage  Miss  Pauline 
Belton  swept  down  the  hotel  corridor. 

She  had  left  the  door  open  behind  her.  Mor 
peth  heard  a  voice,  weak,  but  cheery,  addressing 
him  from  the  far  end  of  the  parlor. 

"You've  got  her!"  it  said.  "She's  crazy  mad. 
She'll  make  up  to  you  to-night — see  if  she 
don't." 

Mr.  Morpeth  looked  up  and  down  the  long 
corridor.  It  was  empty.  He  pushed  the  door 
open,  and  entered.  Flossy  was  lying  on  the 
sofa,  pale,  but  bright-eyed. 

"You  can  get  her,"  she  whispered,  as  he  knelt 
down  beside  her. 

"Flossy,"  he  said,  "don't  you  know  that  that 
is  all  ended?  Don't  you  know  that  I  love  you 
and  you  only?  Don't  you  know  that  I  haven't 
thought  about  any  one  else  since — since — oh, 
Flossy,  don't  you — is  it  possible  that  you  don't 
understand?" 


A   SISTERLY   SCHEME  163 

Flossy  stretched  out  two  weak  arms,  and  put 
them  around  Mr.  Morpeth's  neck. 

"Why  have  I  had  you  in  training  all  Sum 
mer?"  said  she.  "Did  you  think  it  was  for 
Pauline?" 


zozo 

THROUGH  a  thickly  falling  snow,  on  the 
outskirts  of  one  of  New  York's  sub 
urban  towns  (a  hamlet  of  some  two 
hundred  thousand  population),  walked  a  man 
who  had  but  one  desire  in  the  world  ungrati- 
fied.  His  name  was  Richard  Brant,  and  he  was 
a  large,  deep-chested,  handsome  man — a  man's 
man;  hardly  a  woman's  man  at  all;  and  yet  the 
sort  of  man  that  is  likely  to  make  a  pretty  seri 
ous  matter  of  it  if  he  loves  a  woman,  or  if  a 
woman  loves  him. 

Mr.  Richard  Brant  came  from  the  West,  the 
Western-born  child  of  Eastern-born  parents.  He 
made  his  fortune  before  he  was  thirty-five,  and 
for  five  years  he  had  been  trying  to  find  out 
what  he  wanted  to  do  with  that  fortune.  He 
was  a  man  of  few  tastes,  of  no  vices,  and  of  a 
straight-forward,  go-ahead  spirit  that  set  him 
apart  from  the  people  who  make  affectation  the 
spice  of  life.  He  wanted  only  one  thing  in  the 
world,  and  that  one  thing  money  would  not  buy 
for  him.  So  he  was  often  puzzled  as  to  how  he 
might  best  spend  his  money;  and  he  often  spent 
it  foolishly.  As  he  walked  through  the  suburban 
streets  of  the  suburban  city,  this  sharp  Winter's 
night,  he  was  reflecting  on  the  folly  of  spending 

164 


ZOZO  165 

money  on  a  fur  coat.  He  was  wearing  the  coat 
— a  magnificent  affair  of  bear-skin  and  sable. 

"South  of  Canada,"  he  said  to  himself,  "this 
sort  of  thing  is  vulgar  and  unnecessary.  I  don't 
need  it,  any  more  than  a  cow  needs  a  side-pocket. 
It's  too  beastly  hot  for  comfort  at  this  moment. 
I'd  carry  it  over  my  arm,  only  that  I  should 
feel  how  absurdly  heavy  it  really  is." 

Then  he  looked  ahead  through  the  thick  snow, 
and,  although  he  was  a  man  of  strong  nerves, 
he  started  and  stepped  back  like  a  woman  who 
sees  a  cow. 

"Great  Caesar's  ghost!"  said  he. 

He  was  justified  in  calling  thus  upon  the  most 
respectable  spook  of  antiquity.  The  sight  he 
saw  was  strange  enough  in  itself:  seen  in  the 
squalid,  common-place  sub-suburban  street,  it 
was  bewildering.  There,  ahead  of  him,  walked 
Mephistopheles — Mephistopheles  dressed  in  a 
red  flannel  suit,  trimmed  with  yellow,  all  peaks 
and  points;  and  on  the  head  of  Mephistopheles 
was  an  old,  much  worn,  brown  Derby  hat. 

Brant  caught  Mephisto  by  the  shoulder  and 
turned  him  around.  He  was  a  slight,  under 
sized  man  of  fifty,  whose  moustache  and  goatee, 
dyed  an  impossible  black,  served  only  to  accen 
tuate  the  meagre  commonness  of  his  small 
features. 

"Who  are  you?"  demanded  Brant. 

"Sh-h-h!"  said  the  shivering  figure,  "lemme 
go!  I'm  Zozo!" 

Brant    stared   at   him   in   amazement.     What 


166  ZOZO 

was  it?  A  walking  advertisement — for  an  au 
tomatic  toy  or  a  new  tooth-powder  ?" 

"It's  all  right,"  said  the  slim  man,  his  teeth 
chattering,  "lemme  get  along.  I'm  most  freez 
ing.  I'm  Zozo — the  astrologer.  Why — don't 
you  know — on  Eapelyea  Street1?" 

Brant  dimly  remembered  that  there  was  a 
Eapelyea  Street,  through  which  he  sometimes 
passed  on  his  way  to  the  railroad  station,  and 
he  had  some  faint  memory  of  a  gaudily  painted 
shanty  decked  out  with  the  signs  of  the  zodiac 
in  gilt  papier  mache. 

"My  orfice  got  afire  this  evening,"  explained 
Zozo,  "from  the  bakery  next  door.  And  I  had 
to  light  out  over  the  back  fence.  Them  people 
in  that  neighborhood  is  kinder  superstitious. 
They  ain't  no  idea  of  astrology.  They  don't 
know  it's  a  Science.  They  think  it's  some  kind 
of  magic.  And  if  they's  to  see  me  drove  out  by 
a  common,  ordinary  fire,  they'd  think  I  was  no 
sort  of  an  astrologer.  So  I  lit  out  quiet." 

His  teeth  chattered  so  that  he  made  ten  sylla 
bles  out  of  "quiet." 

"They  don't  understand  the  Science  of  it," 
he  continued,  "and  the  fire  got  at  my  street 
clo'es  before  I  knew  it,  and  so  I  had  to  light 
out  mighty  quick.  Now,  jes'  lemme  get  home, 
will  you?  This  here  flannel  ain't  no  fur  coat." 

Brant's  coat  came  off  his  shoulders  in  an 
instant. 

"Put  this  on,"  he  said.  "Confound  you!—" 
as  the  man  resisted — "put  it  on!" 


ZOZO  167 

The  astrologer  slipped  into  the  coat  with  a 
gasp  of  relief. 

"Cracky!"  he  cried,  "but  I  was  freezin'!" 

"Do  you  live  far  from  here?"  Brant  in 
quired. 

"Just  a  bit  up  the  road.  I'm  'most  home, 
now,"  replied  Zozo,  still  chattering  as  to  his 
teeth. 

As  they  walked  along  the  half-built  street, 
Zozo  told  his  tale.  He  had  been  in  the  astrol 
ogy  business  for  thirty  years,  and  it  had  barely 
yielded  him  a  living.  Yet  he  had  been  able,  by 
rigorous  economy,  to  save  up  enough  money 
to  build  himself  a  house — "elegant  house,  sir," 
he  said;  "'tain't  what  you  may  call  large;  but 
it's  an  elegant  house.  I  got  the  design  out  of 
a  book  that  cost  a  dollar,  sir,  a  dollar.  There 
ain't  no  use  in  trying  to  do  things  cheap  when 
you're  going  to  build  a  house." 

But  his  joy  in  his  house  was  counterbalanced 
by  his  grief  for  the  loss  of  his  "orfice."  He 
had  taken  the  ground-rent  of  the  city  lot,  and 
had  erected  the  "orfice"  at  his  own  cost.  Three 
hundred  and  twenty-seven  dollars  he  had  spent 
on  that  modest  structure.  No,  he  had  not  in 
sured  it.  And  now  the  bakery  had  caught  fire, 
and  his  "orfice"  was  burned  to  the  ground,  and 
his  best  suit  of  street-clothes  with  it — his  only 
suit,  as  he  owned  after  a  second's  hesitation. 

In  ten  minutes'  walk  they  arrived  at  Zozo's 
house.  It  was  quite  the  sort  of  house  that 
might  have  come  out  of  a  dollar  book,  with  a 


168  ZOZO 

great  deal  of  scroll-work  abont  it,  and  with  a 
tiny  tower,  adorned  with  fantastically  carved 
shingles.  As  they  stood  on  the  porch — nothing 
would  content  Zozo  but  that  his  new  friend 
should  come  in  and  warm  himself — Mr.  Brant 
looked  at  the  name  on  the  door-plate. 

"Zozo's  only  my  name  in  the  Science,"  the 
astrologer  explained.  "My  real  name — my  born 
name — is  Simmons.  But  I  took  Zozo  for  my 
business  name.  'Z's  seem  to  kinder  go  with  the 
astrology  business,  somehow — I  don't  know  why. 
There's  Zadkiel,  and  Zoroaster,  and — oh,  I  don't 
know — they're  *Z's  or  *X's,  most  of  'em;  and 
it  goes  with  the  populace.  I  don't  no  more  like 
humoring  their  superstition  than  you  would;  but 
a  man's  got  to  live;  and  the  world  ain't  up  to 
the  Science  yet.  Oh,  that 's  you,  Mommer,  is  it  ? ' ' 
he  concluded,  as  the  door  was  opened  by  a  bright, 
buxom,  rather  pretty  woman.  "Mother  ain't  to 
bed  yet,  is  she?  Say,  Mommer,  the  orfice  is 
burnt  down!" 

"Oh,  Popper!"  cried  the  poor  woman;  "you 
don't  reely  say!" 

"True's  I  live,"  said  the  astrologer,  "and  my 
street-clo 'es,  too." 

"Oh,  Popper!"  his  wife  cried,  "what '11  we 
do?" 

"I  don't  know,  Mommer,  I  don't  know.  We'll 
have  to  think.  Jes'  let  this  here  gentleman  in, 
though.  I'd  most  'a'  froze  if  he  hadn't  lent 
me  the  loan  of  his  overcoat.  My  sakes!"  he 
broke  out,  as  he  looked  at  the  garment  in  the 


ZOZO  169 

light  of  the  hall-lamp,  "but  that  cost  money. 
Mommer,  this  here's  Mr. — I  ain't  caught  your 
name,  sir." 

"  Brant, "  said  the  owner  of  the  name. 

"Band.  And  a  reel  elegant  gentleman  he  is, 
Mommer.  I'd  'a'  froze  stiff  in  my  science  clo'es 
if  't  hadn't  been  for  this  coat.  My  sakes!"  he 
exclaimed,  reverently,  "never  see  the  like! 
That'd  keep  a  corpse  warm.  Shut  the  door, 
Mommer,  an'  take  the  gentleman  into  the  din 
ing-room.  He  must  be  right  cold  himself.  Is 
Mother  there?" 

"Yes,"  said  Zozo's  wife,  "and  so's  Mamie. 
You  was  so  late  we  all  got  a  kinder  worried, 
and  Mamie  come  right  down  in  her  nighty,  just 
before  you  come  in.  'Where's  Popper?'  sez 
she;  'ain't  he  came  in  yet  to  kiss  me  good 
night?  'Tain't  mornin',  is  it?'  sez  she.  And 
the  orfice  burned  down!  Oh,  my,  Popper!  I 
thought  our  troubles  was  at  an  end.  Come  right 
in,  Mr. — Mr. — I  ain't  rightly  got  your  name; 
but  thank  you  kindly  for  looking  after  Popper, 
and  if  you  had  an  idee  how  easy  he  takes  cold 
on  his  chist,  you'd  know  how  thankful  I  am. 
Come  right  into  the  dinin'-room.  Mother,  this 
is  Mr.  Band,  and  he  lent  Simmons  the  loan  of 
his  coat  to  come  home  with.  Wa'n't  it  awful?" 

"What's  that?"  croaked  a  very  old  woman  in 
the  corner  of  the  dining-room.  It  was  a  small 
dining-room,  with  a  small  extension-table  cov 
ered  with  a  cheap  red  damask  cloth. 

"  Simmons 's  orfice  is  burned  up,  and  his  best 


170  ZOZO 

snit  with  it,"  explained  Mrs.  Simmons.  "Ain't 
it  awful!" 

"It's  a  jedgement,"  said  the  old  lady,  sol 
emnly.  She  was  a  depressing  old  lady.  And 
yet  she  evidently  was  much  revered  in  the  fam 
ily.  A  four-year-old  child  hung  back  in  a  cor 
ner,  regarding  her  grandmother  with  awe.  But 
when  her  father  entered,  she  slipped  up  to  his 
knee,  and  took  his  kisses  silently,  but  with  spark 
ling  eyes. 

"Only  one  we've  got,"  said  Zozo,  as  he  sat 
down  and  took  her  on  his  knee.  "Born  under 
Mercury  and  Jupiter — if  that  don't  mean  that 
she'll  be  on  top  of  the  real-estate  boom  in  this 
neighborhood,  I  ain't  no  astrologer.  Yes,  Ma," 
he  went  on,  addressing  the  old  woman,  who  gave 
no  slightest  sign  of  interest,  "the  orfice  burned 
down,  and  I  had  to  get  home  quick.  Wouldn't 
'a'  done  for  them  Eapelyea  Street  folks  to  see 
me,  scuttin'  off  in  my  orfice  clo'es." 

He  had  shed  Brant's  huge  overcoat,  and  his 
wife  was  passing  her  hand  over  his  thin  flannel 
suit. 

"Law,  Simmons!"  she  said,  "you're  all  wet!" 

"I'll  dry  all  right  in  these  flannels,"  said  Zozo. 
"Don't  you  bother  to  get  no  other  clo'es." 

He  had  forgotten  that  he  had  told  Brant  that 
the  suit  in  his  office  was  his  only  suit.  Or  per 
haps  he  wished  to  spare  his  wife  the  humiliation 
of  such  an  admission. 

"I'm  dryin'  off  first-rate,"  he  said  cheer 
fully;  "Mamie,  Popper  ain't  wet  where  you're 


ZOZO  171 

setting  is  he?  No.  Well,  now,  Mommer,  yon 
get  out  the  whiskey  and  give  Mr. — Mr.  Band — 
a  glass,  with  some  hot  water,  and  then  he  won't 
get  no  chill.  We're  all  pro'bitionists  here,"  he 
said,  addressing  Brant,  "but  we  b'lieve  in  spirits 
for  medicinal  use.  Yes,  Mother,  you'd  ought- 
erVe  seen  that  place  burn.  Why,  the  flames  was 
on  me  before  I  know'd  where  I  was,  and  I  jist 
thought  to  myself,  thinks  I,  if  these  here  people 
see  me  a-runnin'  away  from  a  fire,  I  won't  cast 
no  horoscope  in  Rapelyea  Street  after  this;  and 
I  tell  you,  the  way  I  got  outer  the  back  window 
and  over  the  back  fence  was  a  caution!  There's 
your  whiskey,  sir;  you'll  excuse  me  if  I  don't 
take  none  myself.  We  ain't  in  the  habit  here." 

Brant  did  not  greatly  wonder  at  their  not 
being  in  the  habit  when  he  tasted  the  whiskey. 
It  was  bad  enough  to  wean  a  toper  on.  But  he 
sipped  it,  and  made  overtures  to  the  baby.  And 
after  a  while  she  showed  an  inclination  to  come 
and  look  at  his  wonderful  watch,  that  struck  the 
hour  when  you  told  it  to.  Before  long  she  was 
sitting  on  his  knee.  Her  father  was  telling  the 
female  members  of  the  family  about  the  fire,  and 
she  felt  both  sleepy  and  shut  out.  She  played 
with  Brant's  watch  for  a  while,  and  then  fell 
asleep  on  his  breast.  He  held  her  tenderly,  and 
listened  to  the  astrologer  as  he  told  his  pitiful 
tale  over  and  over  again,  trying  to  fix  the  first 
second  when  he  had  smelled  smoke. 

He  was  full  of  the  excitement  of  the  affair; 
too  full  of  the  consciousness  of  his  own  achieve- 


172  ZOZO 

ment  to  realize  the  extent  of  the  disaster.  But 
his  wife  suddenly  broke  down,  crying  out: 

"Oh,  Simmons!  where '11  you  get  three  hun 
dred  dollars  to  build  a  new  orfice?" 

Brant  spoke  up,  but  very  softly,  lest  he  might 
wake  the  baby,  who  was  sleeping  with  her  head 
on  his  shoulder. 

"I'll  be  happy  to — to  advance  the  money, " 
he  said. 

Zozo  looked  at  him  almost  sourly. 

"I  ain't  got  no  security  to  give  you.  This  is 
a  Building  Society  house,  and  there's  all  the 
mortgage  on  it  that  it's  worth.  I  couldn't  do  no 
better,"  he  concluded,  sullenly. 

Brant  had  been  poor  enough  himself  to  un 
derstand  the  quick  suspicion  of  the  poor.  "Your 
note  will  do,  Mr.  Simmons,"  he  said;  "I  think  you 
will  pay  me  back.  I  sha'n't  worry  about  it." 

But  it  was  some  time  before  the  Simmons 
family  could  understand  that  a  loan  of  the  mag 
nitude  of  three  hundred  dollars  could  be  made 
so  easily.  When  the  glorious  possibility  did 
dawn  upon  them,  nothing  would  do  but  that 
Mr.  Brant  should  take  another  drink  of  whis 
key.  It  was  not  for  medicinal  purposes  this 
time;  it  was  for  pure  conviviality;  and  Brant 
was  expected,  not  being  a  prohibitionist,  to 
revel  vicariously  for  the  whole  family.  He 
drank,  wondering  what  he  had  at  home  to  take 
the  taste  out  of  his  mouth. 

Then  he  handed  the  baby  to  her  mother,  and 
started  to  go.  But  Simmons  suddenly  and  un- 


ZOZO  173 

expectedly  turned  into  Zozo,  and  insisted  on 
casting  his  benefactor's  horoscope.  His  bene 
factor  told  him  the  day  of  his  birth,  and  guessed 
at  the  hour.  Zozo  figured  on  a  slate,  drawing 
astronomical  characters  very  neatly  indeed,  and 
at  last  began  to  read  off  the  meaning  of  his 
stellar  stenography,  in  a  hushed,  important  voice. 

He  told  Brant  everything  that  had  happened 
to  him  (only  none  of  it  had  happened;  but  Brant 
did  not  say  him  nay).  Then  he  told  him  various 
things  that  were  to  happen  to  him;  and  Zozo 
cheered  up  greatly  when  his  impassive  and  sleepy 
guest  sighed  as  he  spoke  of  a  blonde  woman 
who  was  troubling  his  heart,  and  who  would 
be  his,  some  day.  There  was  a  blonde  woman 
troubling  Brant's  heart;  but  there  was  small 
probability  of  her  being  his  some  day  or  any 
day.  And  then  Zozo  went  on  to  talk  about  a 
dark  woman  who  would  disturb  the  course  of 
true  love;  but  only  temporarily  and  as  a  side 
issue,  so  to  speak. 

"She  ain't  serious,"  he  said.  "She  may  make 
a  muss;  but  she  ain't  reel  serious." 

"Good  night!"  said  Brant. 

"You  don't  b'lieve  in  the  Science,"  said  Zozo, 
in  a  voice  of  genuine  regret.  "But  you  jist  see 
if  it  don't  come  true.  Good  night.  Look  out 
you  don't  trip  over  the  scraper." 


The  blonde  woman  in  Mr.  Brant's  case  was 
Madame  la  Comtesse  de  Renette.     No,  she  was 


174  ZOZO 

not  a  French  woman:  she  was  a  loyal  American. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  an  American  million 
aire;  she  had  lived  for  many  years  in  France, 
and  her  parents  had  married  her,  at  the  age  of 
eighteen,  to  a  title.  The  title  was  owned  by  a 
disagreeable  and  highly  immoral  old  spendthrift, 
who  had  led  her  a  wretched  life  for  two  weary 
years,  and  then  had  had  the  unusual  courtesy 
and  consideration  to  die.  Then  she  took  what 
he  had  left  of  her  millions,  went  home  to  the 
town  of  her  birth,  bought  a  fine  estate  on  its 
outskirts,  and  settled  down  to  enjoy  a  life 
wherein  she  could  awake  each  morning  to  feel 
that  the  days  would  never  more  bring  her  suf 
fering  and  humiliation. 

Then  Mr.  Eichard  Brant  disturbed  her  peace 
of  mind  by  falling  in  love  with  her,  and  what 
was  worse,  asking  her  to  marry  him.  That,  she 
said,  she  could  not  do.  He  was  her  best,  her 
dearest  friend;  she  admired  and  esteemed  him 
more  than  any  man  in  the  w^orld.  If  she  ever 
could  marry  a  man,  she  would  marry  him.  But 
she  never,  never  could.  He  must  not  ask  her. 

Of  course,  he  did  ask  her.  And  he  asked  her 
more  than  once.  And  there  matters  stood,  and 
there  they  seemed  likely  to  stay. 

But  Eichard  Brant  was  a  man  who,  when  he 
wanted  a  thing,  wanted  it  with  his  whole  heart 
and  his  whole  soul,  and  to  the  exclusion  of  every 
other  idea  from  his  mind.  After  eighteen  months 
of  waiting,  he  began  to  find  the  situation  in- 


ZOZO  175 

tolerable.  He  had  no  heart  in  his  business — 
which,  for  the  matter  of  that,  took  care  of  itself 
— and  he  found  it,  as  he  said  to  himself,  "a 
chore  to  exist."  And  what  with  dwelling  on 
the  unattainable,  and  what  with  calling  on  the 
unattainable  once  or  twice  every  week,  he  found 
that  he  was  getting  into  a  morbid  state  of  mind 
that  was  the  next  thing  to  a  mild  mania. 

"This  has  got  to  stop,"  said  Eichard  Brant. 
"I  will  put  an  end  to  it.  I  will  wait  till  an  even 
two  years  is  up,  and  then  I  will  go  away  some 
where  where  I  can't  get  back  until — until  I've 
got  over  it." 

Opportunity  is  never  lacking  to  a  man  in  this 
mood.  Some  scientific  idiot  was  getting  up  an 
Antarctic  expedition,  to  start  in  the  coming  June. 
Brant  applied  for  a  berth. 

"That  settles  it,"  he  said. 

Of  course,  it  didn't  settle  it.  He  moped  as 
much  as  ever  and  found  it  just  as  hard  as  ever 
to  occupy  his  mind.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the 
astrologer,  he  would  hardly  have  known  what 
to  do. 

It  amused  him  to  interest  himself  in  Zozo  and 
his  affairs.  He  watched  the  building  of  the 
new  "orfice,"  and  discussed  with  Zozo  the  color 
of  the  paint  and  the  style  of  the  signs.  Zozo 
tried  to  convert  him  to  astrology,  and  that 
amused  him.  The  little  man's  earnest  faith  in 
this  "science"  was  an  edifying  study.  Then, 
when  the  "orfice"  was  completed,  and  Zozo  be- 


176  ZOZO 

gan  business  again,  he  took  great  pleasure  in 
sitting  hid  in  Zozo's  back  room,  listening  to 
Zozo's  clients,  who  were  often  as  odd  as  Zozo 
himself.  He  had  many  clients  now.  Had  he  not 
miraculously  evanished  from  a  burning  build 
ing,  and  come  back  unscathed? 


But  there  are  two  sides  to  every  friendship. 
Brant  took  an  amused  interest  in  Zozo.  Zozo 
worshiped  Brant  as  his  preserver  and  benefactor. 
Zozo's  affairs  entertained  Brant.  Brant's  af 
fairs  were  a  matter  of  absorbing  concern  to 
Zozo.  Zozo  would  have  died  for  Brant. 

So  it  came  about  that  Zozo  found  out  all 
about  the  blonde  lady  in  Brant's  case.  How? 
Well,  one  is  not  an  astrologer  for  nothing. 
Brant's  coachman  and  Mme.  de  Renette's  maid 
were  among  Zozo's  clients.  No  society  gossip 
knew  so  much  about  the  Brant-Renette  affair 
as  Zozo  knew,  inside  of  two  months. 


"It's  perfectly  ridiculous,  Annette!  I  can't 
see  the  man!" 

"Madame  knows  best,"  said  Annette,  wiping 
away  a  ready  tear.  "It  is  only  that  I  love  Ma 
dame.  And  it  is  not  well  to  anger  those  who 
have  the  power  of  magic.  If  they  can  bring 
good  luck,  they  can  bring  bad.  And  he  is 
certainly  a  great  magician.  Fire  cannot  burn 
him." 


ZOZO  177 

Mme.    de    Renette   toyed   with    a   gorgeously- 
printed  card  that  read: 


9 

Astrologer  &  Fire  Monarch 

Seventh  Son  of  a  Seventh  Son. 
27  Kapelyea  St. 


"Well,"  she  said  at  last,  "show  him  in,  An 
nette.  But  it's  perfectly  absurd!" 

Zozo,  in  a  very  ready-made  suit,  with  no 
earthly  idea  what  to  do  with  his  hat,  profuse 
of  bows  and  painfully  flustered,  did  not  inspire 
awe. 

"You  wish  to  see  me?"  inquired  Mme.  de 
Eenette,  somewhat  sternly. 

"Madam,"  began  her  visitor,  in  a  tremulous 
voice,  "I  come  with  a  message  from  the  stars." 

"Very  well,"  said  Mme.  de  Renette,  "will  you 
kindly  deliver  your  message?  I  do  not  wish  to 
detain  you — from  your  stars." 

It  was  a  flushed,  but  a  self-complacent,  beam 
ing,  happy  Zozo  who  stopped  Richard  Brant  on 
the  street  an  hour  later. 

"If  you  please,  Mr.  Brant,  sir,"  he  said;  "I'd 
like  a  few  minutes  of  your  time." 

"Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Brant,  wondering  if 
Zozo  wanted  to  borrow  any  more  money. 

"You've  been  a  great  good  friend  to  me,  Mr. 


178  ZOZO 

Brant,"  Zozo  began,  "and  I  hope  yon  b'lieve, 
sir,  that  me  and  Mommer  and  Ma  Simmons  and 
Mamie  are  jist  as  grateful  as — well,  as  any 
thing.  " 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,   Simmons — " 

"Yes,  sir.  Well,  now  you'll  pardon  me  for 
seeming  to  interfere,  like,  in  your  business.  But 
knowin'  as  I  done  how  your  affairs  with  the 
blonde  lady  was  hangin'  fire,  so  to  speak — " 

"  'The  blonde  lady!'  "  broke  in  Brant. 

"Madam  dee  Kennet,"  explained  Zozo. 

"The  devil!"  said  Brant. 

"Well,  sir,  knowin'  that,  as  I  done,  and  know- 
in*  that  there  couldn't  be  nothin'  to  it — no  lady 
would  chuck  you  over  her  shoulder,  Mr.  Brant, 
sir — but  only  jist  that  her  mind  wasn't  at  ease 
with  regard  to  the  dark  lady — whereas  the  stars 
show  clear  as  ever  they  showed  any  thin',  that 
the  dark  lady  was  only  temporary  and  threat 
ened,  and  nothin'  reel  serious — why,  I  made  so 
free  as  jist  to  go  right  straight  to  Madam  dee 
Eennet  and  ease  her  mind  on  that  point — and 
I  did." 

"Great  heavens!"  Brant  yelled.  "You  infer 
nal  meddler!  what  have  you  done?  I  don't  know 
a  dark  woman  in  the  world!  What  have  you 
said? — oh,  curse  it!"  he  cried,  as  he  realized, 
from  the  pain  of  its  extinction,  that  hope  had 
been  alive  in  his  heart,  "what  have  you  done? 
— you  devil!" 

He  turned  on  his  heel  and  rushed  off  toward 
Madame  de  Kenette's  house. 


ZOZO  179 

"This  does  settle  it,"  he  thought.  "There's 
no  getting  an  idea  like  that  out  of  a  woman's 
head." 


"I  understand,"  he  said,  as  he  hurriedly  pre 
sented  himself  to  the  lady  of  his  love,  "that  a 
madman  has  been  here — " 

"Yes,"  said  Mme.  de  Renette,  severely. 

"You  didn't  pay  any  attention  to  his  non 
sense?" 

"About  the  dark  woman?"  inquired  Mme.  de 
Renette. 

"Why,  there's  no  other  woman,  dark  or 
light—" 

"I  don't  know  whether  there  is  or  not,  Rich 
ard,"  said  Mme.  de  Renette,  with  icy  distinct 
ness;  "but  I  know  that  there  won't  be,  after — 
well,  sir,  could  you  break  your  June  engage 
ment  for — me?" 

And  Zozo  was  justified. 


AN    OLD,    OLD    STORY 

I    SUPPOSE  the  Tullingworth-Gordons  were 
good  Americans  at  heart;  but  the  Tulling 
worth-Gordons  were  of  English  extraction, 
and,  as  somebody  once  said,  the  extraction  had 
not  been  completely  successful — a  great  deal  of 
the  English  soil  clung  to  the  roots  of  the  fam 
ily  tree. 

They  lived  on  Long  Island,  in  a  very  English 
way,  in  a  manor-house  which  was  as  English  as 
they  could  make  it,  among  surroundings  quite 
respectably  English  for  Americans  of  the  third 
or  fourth  generation. 

They  had  two  English  servants  and  some  other 
American  "help";  but  they  called  the  Americans 
by  their  last  names,  which  anglified  them  to  some 
extent.  They  had  a  servants'  hall,  and  a  but 
ler's  pantry,  and  a  page  in  buttons,  and  they 
were  unreasonably  proud  of  the  fact  that  one 
of  their  Tory  ancestors  had  been  obliged  to  leave 
New  York  for  Halifax,  in  1784,  having  only  the 
alternative  of  a  more  tropical  place  of  residence. 
I  do  not  know  whether  they  really  held  that  the 
signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence  com 
mitted  a  grave  error;  but  I  do  know  that  when 
they  had  occasion  to  speak  of  Queen  Victoria, 
they  always  referred  to  her  as  "Her  Majesty." 

180 


AN   OLD,   OLD   STORY  181 

"I  see  by  the  Mail  to-night,"  Mr.  Tulling- 
worth-Gordon  would  say  to  his  wife,  "that  Her 
Majesty  has  presented  the  poor  bricklayer  who 
saved  seventeen  lives  and  lost  both  his  arms  at 
the  Chillingham-on-Frees  disaster  with  an  India 
shawl  and  a  copy  of  the  Life  of  the  Prince 
Consort." 

"Her  Majesty  is  always  so  generous!"  Mrs. 
Tullingworth-Gordon  would  sigh;  "and  so  con 
siderate  of  the  common  people!" 

Mr.  Tullingworth-Gordon  was  a  rich  man,  and 
he  was  free  to  indulge  the  fancy  of  his  life,  and 
to  be  as  English  as  his  name;  and  he  engaged 
those  two  English  servants  to  keep  up  the  il 
lusion. 

It  is  the  tale  of  the  menials  that  I  have  to  tell 
— the  tale  of  the  loves  of  Samuel  Bilson,  butler, 
and  Sophronia  Huckins,  "which  'Uckins  it  ever 
was  an'  so  it  were  allays  called,  and  which 
'Uckins  is  good  enough  for  me,  like  it  was  good 
enough  for  my  parents  now  departed,  and  there 
is  'ope  for  'eaven  for  chapel-goers,  though  a 
Church-of -England  woman  I  am  myself." 

Sophronia  Huckins  was  lady's  maid  to  Mrs. 
Tullingworth-Gordon,  housekeeper  to  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Tullingworth-Gordon,  and,  in  a  way,  auto 
crat  and  supreme  ruler  over  the  whole  house  of 
Tullingworth-Gordon.  There  were  other  ser 
vants,  as  I  have  said,  but,  in  their  several  depart 
ments,  Bilson  and  Sophronia  were  king  and  queen. 
Of  course,  at  the  first,  there  was  some  friction 
between  these  two  potentates.  For  ten  years  they 


182  AN   OLD,    OLD    STORY 

scratched  and  sparred  and  jostled;  for  ten  years 
after  that  they  lived  in  comfortable  amity,  reliev 
ing  their  feelings  by  establishing  a  reign  of  terror 
over  the  other  servants;  and  then — ah,  then — be 
gan  the  dawn  of  another  day.  Bilson  was  careless 
about  the  wine ;  Sophronia  took  to  the  wearing  of 
gowns  unbefitting  a  maid  of  forty  years.  It  broke 
upon  the  Tullingworth-Gordon  mind  that  some 
thing  was  in  the  wind,  and  that  the  conservative 
quiet  of  their  domestic  service  was  likely  to  be 
troubled. 

Meanwhile,  Nature,  unconscious  of  the  propri 
eties  of  the  situation,  was  having  her  own  way  in 
the  little  passage  back  of  the  butler's  pantry. 

"You  say" — the  housekeeper  spoke  with  a  cer 
tain  sternness — "as  how  you  have  loved  me  for 
ten  long  years.  But  I  say  as  how  it  would  'ave 
been  more  to  your  credit,  Samuel  Bilson,  to  'ave 
found  it  out  afore  this,  when,  if  I  do  say  it  myself, 
there  was  more  occasion." 

"It's  none  the  wuss,  Sophronia,  for  a-bein' 
found  out  now,"  rejoined  the  butler,  sturdily: 
"what  you  was,  you  is  to  me,  an'  I  don't  noways 
regret  that  you  ain't  wrhat  you  was,  in  point  of 
beauty,  to  'ave  young  men  an'  sich  a-comin'  be 
tween  us,  as  an  engaged  pair. ' ' 

"  'Oo's  an  engaged  pair?"  demanded  Soph 
ronia,  with  profound  dignity. 

"Us,"  said  Mr.  Bilson,  placidly:  "or  to  be  con 
sidered  as  sich." 

J'l  ain't  considered  us  as  sich,"  said  Sophronia, 
coquettishly :  "not  as  yet." 


AN   OLD,    OLD    STORY  183 

Mr.  Bilson  was  stacking  up  dishes  on  the 
shelves  in  the  passage-way.  He  paused  in  his 
labors;  put  his  hands  on  his  hips,  and  faced  his 
tormenting  charmer  with  determination  in  his 
eye. 

"Sophronia  'Uckins!"  he  said:  "you're  forty, 
this  day  week;  that  much  I  know.  Forty's  forty. 
You've  kep'  your  looks  wonderful,  an'  you  'ave 
your  teeth  which  Providence  give  you.  But 
forty's  forty.  If  you  mean  Bilson,  you  mean 
Bilson  now,  'ere  in  this  'ere  cupboard-extension, 
your  'and  an'  your  'art,  to  love,  honor,  an'  obey, 
so  'elp  you.  Now,  'ow  goes  it?" 

It  went  Mr.  Bilson 's  way.  Sophronia  demurred, 
and  for  a  space  of  some  few  weeks  she  was  doubt 
ful;  then  she  said  "  No  "—but  ir  the  end  she 
consented. 

Why  should  she  not?  Bilson  had  been  a  saving 
man.  No  luxurious  furniture  beautified  his  little 
room  over  the  stables.  His  character  was  above 
reproach.  He  allowed  himself  one  glass  of  port 
each  day  from  Mr.  Tullingworth-Gordon 's  stock; 
but  there  he  drew  the  line.  Such  as  it  was,  the 
master  of  the  house  had  his  own  wine,  every  drop, 
except  that  solitary  glass  of  port — save  on  one 
occasion. 

And  Sophronia  Huckins  was  the  occasion  of 
that  occasion.  Smooth  and  decorous  ran  the 
course  of  true  love  for  four  months  on  end.  Mrs. 
Tullingworth-Gordon  had  been  made  acquainted 
with  the  state  of  affairs;  had  raged,  had  cooled, 
and  had  got  to  that  point  where  the  natural 


184  AN   OLD,   OLD   STOEY 

woman  arose  within  her,  and  she  began  to  think 
about  laying  out  a  trousseau  for  the  bride.  Fair 
was  the  horizon;  cloudless  the  sky.  Then  came 
the  heavy  blow  of  Fate. 

When  Cupid  comes  to  you  at  forty  years,  he  is 
likely  to  be  something  wrinkled,  more  or  less  fat 
and  pursy,  a  trifle  stiff  in  the  joints.  You  must 
humor  him  a  little;  you  must  make  believe,  and 
play  that  he  is  young  and  fair.  It  takes  imagina 
tion  to  do  this,  and  in  imagination  Sophronia  was 
deficient.  Her  betrothal  was  not  two  months  old 
when  she  suddenly  realized  that  there  was  some 
thing  grotesque  and  absurd  about  it.  How  did 
she  get  the  idea?  Was  it  an  echo  of  the  gossip 
of  the  other  servants!  Did  she  see  the  shop 
keepers,  quick  to  catch  all  the  local  gossip,  smil 
ing  at  her  as  she  went  about  the  little  town  on  her 
domestic  errands?  Was  there  something  in  Bil- 
son's  manners  that  told  her  that  he  felt,  in  his 
inmost  heart,  that  he  had  got  to  the  point  where 
he  had  to  take  what  he  could  get,  and  that  he 
held  her  lucky  to  have  been  conveniently  acces 
sible  at  that  critical  juncture? 

We  cannot  know.  Perhaps  Bilson  was  to 
blame.  A  man  may  be  in  love — over  head  and 
ears  in  love — and  yet  the  little  red  feather  of  his 
vanity  will  stick  out  of  the  depths,  and  proclaim 
that  his  self-conceit  is  not  yet  dead. 

Perhaps  it  was  Bilson:  perhaps  it  was  some 
other  cause.  It  matters  not.  One  dull  November 
day,  Sophronia  Huckins  told  Samuel  Bilson  that 
she  could  not  and  would  not  marry  him. 


AN  OLD,   OLD   STORY  185 

"It  was  my  intent,  Samuel;  but  I  'ave  seen  it 
was  not  the  thing  for  neither  of  us.  If  you  had 
'a*  seen  your  way  clear  five  or  ten  or  may  be 
fifteen  years  ago,  I  don't  say  as  it  wouldn't  'a' 
been  different.  But  as  to  sich  a  thing  now,  I  may 
'ave  been  foolish  a-listenin'  to  you  last  July;  but 
what  brains  I  'ave  is  about  me  now,  an '  I  tell  you 
plain,  Samuel  Bilson,  it  can't  never  be." 

To  Bilson  this  came  like  a  clap  of  thunder  out 
of  the  clearest  and  sunniest  of  skies.  If  the  Cupid 
within  him  had  grown  old  and  awkward,  he  was 
unaware  of  it.  To  his  dull  and  heavily  British 
apprehension,  it  was  the  same  Cupid  that  he  had 
known  in  earlier  years.  The  defection  of  his  be 
trothed  was  a  blow  from  which  he  could  not 
recover. 

"Them  women,"  he  said,  "is  worse 'n  the 
measles.  You  don't  know  when  they're  comin' 
out,  an'  you  don't  know  when  they're  goin* 


m." 


The  blow  fell  upon  him  late  one  evening,  long 
after  dinner;  when  everything  had  been  put  to 
rights.  He  was  sitting  in  the  butler's  pantry, 
sipping  his  one  glass  of  port,  when  Sophronia 
entered  and  delivered  her  dictum. 

She  went  out  and  left  him — left  him  with  the 
port.  She  left  him  with  the  sherry;  she  left  him 
with  the  claret,  with  the  old,  old  claret,  with  the 
comet  year,  with  the  wine  that  had  rounded  the 
Cape,  with  the  Cognac,  with  the  Chartreuse,  with 
the  syrupy  Curagoa  and  the  Eau  de  Dantzic,  and 
with  the  Scotch  whiskey  that  Mr.  Tullingworth- 


186 

Gordon  sometimes  drank  in  despite  of  plain 
American  Eye. 

She  left  him  with  the  structure  of  a  lifetime 
shattered;  with  the  love  of  twenty  years  nipped 
in  its  late-bourgeoning  bud.  She  left  him  alone, 
and  she  left  him  with  a  deadly  nepenthe  at  hand. 

He  fell  upon  those  bottles,  and,  for  once  in  his 
quiet,  steady,  conservative  life,  he  drank  his  fill. 
He  drank  the  soft,  sub-acid  claret;  he  drank  the 
nutty  sherry ;  he  drank  the  yellow  Chartreuse  and 
the  ruddy  Curagoa.  He  drank  the  fiery  Cognac, 
and  the  smoky  Scotch  whiskey.  He  drank  and 
drank,  and  as  his  grief  rose  higher  and  higher, 
high  and  more  high  he  raised  the  intoxicating 
flood. 

At  two  o'clock  of  that  night,  a  respectable 
butler  opened  a  side-door  in  the  mansion  of  Mr. 
Tullingworth-Gordon,  and  sallied  forth  to  cool 
his  brow  in  the  midnight  air. 

He  was  singing  as  they  brought  him  back  on  a 
shutter,  in  the  early  morning;  but  it  was  not 
wholly  with  drunkenness,  for  delirium  had  hold 
of  him.  Down  to  the  south  of  the  house  were 
long  stretches  of  marsh,  reaching  into  the  Great 
South  Bay,  and  there  he  had  wandered  in  his  first 
intoxication.  There  he  had  stepped  over  the  edge 
of  a  little  dyke  that  surrounded  Mr.  Tallingworth- 
Gordon's  pike-pond — where  all  the  pike  died,  be 
cause  the  water  was  too  salt  for  them — and  there 
they  found  him  lying  on  his  back,  with  one  of  the 
most  interesting  cases  of  compound  fracture  in 
his  right  leg  that  has  yet  been  put  on  record,  and 


AN  OLD,   OLD   STOEY  187 

with  the  flat  stones  that  topped  the  dyke  lying 
over  him. 

They  took  him  to  his  room  over  the  stable,  and 
put  him  to  bed,  and  sent  for  the  doctor.  The 
doctor  came,  and  set  the  leg.  He  also  smelt  of 
Mr.  Bilson's  breath,  and  gazed  upon  Mr.  Bilson's 
feverish  countenance,  and  said: 

"Hard  drinker,  eh?  We'll  have  trouble  with 
him,  probably.  Hasn't  he  got  anybody  to  look 
after  him?" 

This  query  found  its  way  up  to  the  manor- 
house  of  the  Tullingworth-Gordons.  It  came,  in 
some  way,  to  the  ears  of  Sophronia.  Shortly 
after  dinner-time  she  appeared  in  the  chamber  of 
Bilson. 

Bilson  was  "coming  out  of  it."  He  was  con 
scious,  he  was  sore;  he  was  heavy  of  heart  and 
head.  He  looked  up,  as  he  lay  on  his  bed,  and 
saw  a  comely,  middle-aged  Englishwoman,  sharp 
of  feature,  yet  somehow  pleasant  and  comfort 
ing,  standing  by  his  bed. 

* '  Sophronia ! ' '  he  exclaimed. 

"Hush!"  she  said;  "the  medical  man  said  yon 
wasn't  to  talk." 

"Sophronia — 't  ain't  you!" 

"P'r'aps  it  ain't,"  said  Sophronia,  sourly; 
"p'r'aps  it's  a  cow,  or  a  'orse  or  a  goat,  or  any- 
thin'  that  is  my  neighbor's.  But  the  best  I  know, 
it's  me,  an'  I've  come  to  'ave  an  eye  on  you." 

"Sophronia!"  gasped  the  sufferer;  " 't  ain't 
noways  proper." 

"  'T's  goin'  to  be  proper,  Samuel  Bilson.    You 


188  AN   OLD,   OLD   STORY 

wait,  an'  you'll  see  what  you'll  see.  'Ere  'e 
comes." 

Mr.  Bilson's  room  was  reached  by  a  ladder, 
coming  up  through  a  hole  in  the  floor.  Through 
this  hole  came  a  peculiarly  shaped  felt  hat;  then 
a  pale  youthful  face;  then  a  vest  with  many 
buttons. 

"To  'ave  and  to  'old,"  said  Sophronia.  "'Ere 
>eis." 

The  head  came  up,  and  a  long,  thin  body  after 
it.  Pale  and  gaunt,  swaying  slightly  backward 
and  forward,  like  a  stiff  cornstalk  in  a  mild  breeze, 
the  Reverend  Mr.  Chizzy  stood  before  them  and 
smiled  vaguely. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Chizzy  was  only  twenty-four, 
and  he  might  have  passed  for  nineteen;  but  he 
was  so  high  a  churchman  that  the  mould  of  several 
centuries  was  on  him.  He  was  a  priest  without 
a  cure ;  but,  as  some  of  his  irreverent  friends  ex 
pressed  it,  he  was  "in  training"  for  the  Rector 
ship  of  St.  Bede's  the  Less,  a  small  church  in  the 
neighborhood,  endowed  by  Mr.  Tullingworth-Gor- 
don  and  disapproved  of  by  his  Bishop,  who  had 
not  yet  appointed  a  clergyman.  The  Bishop  had 
been  heard  to  say  that  he  had  not  yet  made  up 
his  mind  whether  St.  Bede  's  the  Less  was  a  church 
or  some  new  kind  of  theatre.  Nevertheless,  Mr. 
Chizzy  was  on  hand,  living  under  the  wing  of  the 
Tullingworth-Gordons,  and  trying  to  make  the 
good  Church-of-England  people  of  the  parish  be 
lieve  that  they  needed  him  and  his  candles  and 
his  choir-boys. 


AN   OLD,   OLD   STORY  189 

Behind  Mr.  Chizzy  came  two  limp  little  girls, 
hangers-on  of  the  Tullingworth- Gordon  household 
by  grace  of  Mrs.  Tullingworth- Gordon's  charity. 
In  New  England  they  would  have  been  called 
"chore-girls."  The  Tullingworth- Gordons  called 
them  "scullery  maids." 

Bilson  half  rose  on  his  elbow  in  astonishment, 
alarm  and  indignation. 

"Sophronia  'Uckins,"  he  demanded,  "what  do 
this  'ere  mean?  I  ain't  a-dyin',  and  I  ain't  got 
no  need  of  a  clergyman,  thank  'eaven.  And  no 
more  this  ain't  a  scullery,  Mrs.  'Uckins." 

"This,"  said  Sophronia,  pointing  at  the  clergy 
man  as  though  he  were  a  wax-figure  in  a  show, 
"this  is  to  wed  you  and  me,  Samuel  Bilson,  and 
them"  (she  indicated  the  scullery  maids),  "them 
witnesses  it." 

"Witnesses  ivot?"  Mr.  Bilson  inquired,  in  a 
yell. 

"Witnesses  our  marriage,  Samuel  Bilson. 
Nuss  you  I  cannot,  both  bein'  single,  and  nussed 
you  must  and  shall  be.  Now  set  up  and  be  marri  'd 
quiet. ' ' 

Mr.  Bilson 's  physical  condition  forbade  him  to 
leap  from  the  bed;  but  his  voice  leaped  to  the 
rafters  above  him. 

1 '  Marri  'd ! "  he  shouted :  "  I  '11  die  fust ! ' ' 

"Die  you  will,"  said  Sophronia,  calmly  but 
sternly,  "if  married  you  ain't,  and  that  soon." 

"Sophronia!"  Bilson 's  voice  was  hollow  and 
deeply  reproachful;  "you  'ave  throwed  me  over." 

"I  'ave,"  she  assented. 


190  AN  OLD,   OLD   STORY 

"And  'ere  I  am." 

"And  there  you  are." 

"Sophronia,  you  'ave  not  treated  me  right.5' 

"I  'ave  not,  Samuel  Bilson,"  Miss  Huckins 
cheerfully  assented;  "I  might  'ave  known  as  you 
was  not  fit  to  take  care  of  yourself.  But  I  mean 
to  do  my  dooty  now,  so  will  you  'ave  the  kindness 
to  button  your  clo'es  at  the  neck,  and  sit  up?" 

Mr.  Bilson  mechanically  fastened  the  neck-band 
of  his  night-shirt  and  raised  himself  to  the  sitting 
posture. 

"Mrs.  Huckins,"  Mr.  Chizzy  interrupted,  in  an 
uncertain  way;  "I  didn't  understand — you  did 
not  tell  me — there  does  not  appear  to  have  been 
the  usual  preliminary  arrangement  for  this  most 
sacred  and  solemn  ceremony." 

Sophronia  turned  on  him  with  scorn  in  her  voice 
and  bearing. 

"Do  I  understand,  sir,  as  you  find  yourself  in 
a  'urry?" 

"I  am  not  in  a  hurry — oh,  no.  But — dear  me, 
you  know,  I  can't  perform  the  ceremony  under 
these  circumstances." 

Miss  Huckins  grew  more  profoundly  scornful. 

"Do  you  know  any  himpediment  w'y  we  should 
not  be  lawfully  joined  together  in  matrimony?" 

"Why,"  said  the  perturbed  cleric,  "he  doesn't 
want  you." 

" 'E  doesn't  know  what  'e  wrants,"  returned 
Sophronia,  grimly;  "if  women  waited  for  men  to 
find  out  w'en  the}7  wanted  wives,  there 'd  be  more 
old  maids  than  there  is.  If  you'll  be  good 


AN   OLD,   OLD   STORY  191 

enough  to  take  your  book  in  your  'and,  sir,  I'll 
see  to  'im." 

Bilson  made  one  last  faint  protest. 

"  'T  wouldn't  be  right,  Sophronia,"  he  wailed; 
"I  ain't  wot  I  was;  I'm  a  wuthless  and  a  busted 
wreck.  I  can't  tie  no  woman  to  me  for  life.  It 
ain't  doin'  justice  to  neither." 

"If  you're  what  you  say  you  are,"  said  Soph 
ronia,  imperturbably,  "and  you  know  better  than 
I  do,  you  should  be  glad  to  take  wot  you  can  get. 
If  I'm  suited,  don't  you  complain." 

"Mrs.  Huckins,"  the  young  clergyman  broke 
in,  feebly  asserting  himself,  "this  is  utterly 
irregular." 

"I  know  it  is,"  said  Sophronia;  "and  we're 
a-waitin'  for  you  to  set  it  straight." 

The  two  chore-girls  giggled.  A  warm  flush 
mounted  to  Mr.  Chizzy's  pale  face.  He  hesitated 
a  second;  then  nervously  opened  his  book,  and 
began  the  service.  Sophronia  stood  by  the  bed 
side,  clasping  Bilson 's  hand  in  a  grasp  which  no 
writhing  could  loosen. 

"Dearly  beloved,"  Mr.  Chizzy  began,  address 
ing  the  two  chore-girls ;  and  with  a  trembling  voice 
he  hurried  on  the  important  question : 

"Wilt  thou  have  this  woman  to  be  thy  wedded 
wife?—" 

"N— yah!" 

Bilson  had  begun  to  say  "No ;"  but  Sophronia 's 
firm  hand  had  tightened  on  his  with  so  powerful 
a  pressure  that  his  negative  remonstrance  ended 
in  a  positive  yell. 


192  AN   OLD,   OLD   STORY 

"Ah,  really,"  broke  in  Mr.  Chizzy;  "I  cannot 
proceed,  M —  M —  Miss — ah,  what's  your  name! 
— I  positively  can't!" 

"Mrs.  Bilson,"  returned  the  unmoved  Soph- 
ronia.  "Are  you  intending  for  to  part  'usband 
and  wife  at  this  point,  sir  ?  Excuse  me ;  but  we  're 
a-waitin'  of  your  convenience." 

Mr.  Chizzy  was  a  deep  red  in  the  face.  His 
pallor  had  given  place  to  a  flush  quite  as  ghastly 
in  its  way.  The  blood  was  waltzing  in  giddy 
circles  through  his  brain  as  he  read  on  and  on. 

No  church — no  candles — no  robes — no  choiring 
boys.  Only  this  awful  woman,  stern  as  death, 
commanding  him  and  Bilson.  Why  had  he  yielded 
to  her?  "Why  had  he  permitted  himself  to  be 
dragged  hither?  Why  was  he  meekly  doing  her 
bidding?  Mr.  Chizzy  felt  as  though  he  were  act 
ing  in  some  ghastly,  nightmarish  dream. 

"Then  shall  the  Minister  say:  Who  giveth  this 
Woman  to  be  married  to  this  Man?" 

That  roused  Mr.  Chizzy  from  his  trance.  It 
came  late ;  but  it  seemed  to  open  a  way  out  of  the 
horribly  irregular  business.  He  paused  and  tried 
to  fix  an  uncertain  eye  on  Sophronia. 

"Have  you  a  Father  or  a  Friend  here?"  he 
demanded. 

"Jim!"  said  Sophronia,  loudly. 

"Ma'am?"  came  a  voice  from  the  lower  story 
of  the  stable. 

"Say  'I  do.'" 

"Ma'am?" 

"Say  'I  do' — an'  say  it  directly!" 


AN  OLD,   OLD   STORY  193 

"Say — say? — what  do  you  want,  Miss  Huck- 
ins?" 

"Jim!"  said  Sophronia,  sternly,  "open  your 
mouth  an'  say  'I  do7  out  loud,  or  I  corne  down 
there  immejit!" 

"I  do!"  came  from  the  floor  below. 

"'Ere's  the  ring,"  said  Sophronia,  promptly; 
"  'I,  M.,  take  thee,  N.' — if  you'll  'ave  the  kind 
ness  to  go  on,  sir,  we  won't  detain  you  any 
longer  than  we  can  'elp.  I'm  give  away,  I 
believe;  an'  I'll  take  'im,  M." 

"Forasmuch  as,"  began  the  Eeverend  Mr. 
Chizzy,  a  few  minutes  later,  addressing  the  chore- 
girls,  "Samuel  and  Sophronia  have  consented  to 
gether  in  holy  wedlock — " 

He  stopped  suddenly.  Up  through  the  opening 
in  the  floor  arose  the  head  of  a  youthful  negro, 
perhaps  fourteen  years  of  age.  Mr.  Chizzy  rec 
ognized  him  as  the  stable-boy,  a  jockey  of  some 
local  fame. 

"What  you  want  me  to  say  I  done  do?"  he 
inquired. 

"Mrs. —  Mrs. —  Bilson!"  said  Mr.  Chizzy,  with 
a  tremulous  indignation  in  his  voice;  "did  this 
negro  infant  act  as  your  parent  or  friend,  just 
now?" 

* '  'E  give  me  away, ' '  replied  the  unabashed 
bride. 

Mr.  Chizzy  looked  at  her,  at  Bilson,  at  Jim,  and 
at  the  chore-girls.  Then  he  opened  his  book  again 
and  finished  the  ceremony. 


194  AN   OLD,   OLD   STOEY 

The  Tullingworth-Gordons  were  angry  when 
they  heard  of  the  marriage.  They  missed  the  two 
main-stays  of  their  domestic  system.  But — well, 
Bilson  was  growing  old,  and  Sophronia  was  grow 
ing  tyrannical.  Perhaps  it  was  better  as  it  was. 
And,  after  all,  they  had  always  wanted  a  Lodge, 
and  a  Lodge-keeper,  and  the  old  ice-house  stood 
near  the  gate — a  good  two  hundred  feet  from 
the  house. 

It  was  nearly  a  year  before  Bilson  could  walk 
around  with  comfort.  Indeed,  eighteen  months 
later,  he  did  not  care  to  do  more  than  sit  in  the 
sun  and  question  Fate,  while  Mrs.  Bilson  tried 
to  quiet  a  noisy  baby  within  the  Lodge. 

"  'Ere  I  am  laid  up,  as  I  should  be,"  said  Bil 
son;  "an  there's  an  active  woman  a-goin'  around 
with  a  baby,  and  a-nussin'  of  him.  If  things  was 
as  they  should  be,  in  the  course  of  nachur,  we'd 
'ave  exchanged  jobs,  we  would." 


THE   SUBURBAN   SAGE 

STRAY    NOTES    AND    COMMENTS 
ON   HIS    SIMPLE    LIFE 


MR.    CHEDBY   ON    A    REGULAR 
NUISANCE 

"  T  T  seems  quite  possible,"  I  said  to  my  wife; 
''and  if  Chedby  ever  had  anything  of  his 

JL  own  that  I  could  possibly  use,  I  should  cer 
tainly  go  down  and  make  a  pretense  of  borrowing 
it,  just  to  get  a  look  about  the  place.  But  I  hardly 
know  the  man,  long  as  he 's  been  here,  and  I  should 
suppose  he  might  think  it  strange  if  I  dropped  in 
there  at  this  late  date  with  no  ostensible  reason — 
that  is,  of  course,  if  it  is  so." 

My  wife  pondered  a  moment,  and  then  came 
to  my  rescue. 

"You  might  go  down  on  your  afternoon  walk," 
she  suggested,  "and  ask  him  if  that  dog  that 
strayed  in  here  yesterday  belongs  to  him." 

"That's  a  good  idea,"  said  I;  "I'll  put  the 
dog  in  a  leash,  and  take  him  right  down  there." 

"I  don't  think  I  would  take  the  dog  down 
with  you,  dear,"  my  wife  said,  thoughtfully. 

"Why  not?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  you  know  best,  my  dear,"  she  replied 
meekly;  "but  I  only  thought  that  if  you  were 
just  to  say  that  the  dog  had  strayed  in  here,  and 
that  he  seemed  to  be  quite  a  valuable  fox-ter 
rier — " 

195 


196      ME.  CHEDBY  ON  A  NUISANCE 

"I  see,"  I  said,  with  a  sudden  flash  of  illu 
mination;  "and  he's  such  a  really  valuable  ani 
mal  that  I  hate  to  take  the  responsibility  of  keep 
ing  him." 

"I  think  it  would  be  well,  my  dear,"  said  my 
wife,  sedately.  "The  poor  creature  cried  all 
night  in  the  cellar,  and  neither  of  our  dogs  will 
have  him  about  the  place." 

Inside  of  half  an  hour  I  presented  myself  at 
Mr.  Chedby 's  gate.  He  lived  the  better  part 
of  a  mile  away  from  me,  near  the  River  Eoad. 


I  found  Mr.  Chedby  industriously  pulling  an 
iron  roller  up  and  down  the  bit  of  grass-plot 
which  is  known  in  our  suburban  community  by 
a  polite  and  friendly  fiction  as  a  "lawn."  The 
roller  was  old,  and  of  a  somewhat  battered  ap 
pearance,  and,  being  unusually  small  and  light, 
it  carried  on  its  inside,  besides  the  usual  comple 
ment  of  weights,  an  extra  one  in  the  shape  of 
a  small  iron  glue-kettle,  which  had  been  filled 
up  solidly  with  melted  lead.  Mr.  Chedby  greeted 
me  cordially,  but  he  responded  to  my  inquiry 
with  something  like  suspicion. 

"I  did  lose  a  fox-terrier,"  he  said,  after  some 
hesitation;  "but  it  was  most  two  weeks  ago,  and 
I  guess  he's  been  snapped  up  long  ago.  He  was 
a  fine-blooded  dog.  Is  the  one  youVe  got  a  fine- 
blooded  dog?" 

I  assured  him  that  the  dog's  blood  was  the 
finest  of  the  fine,  and  this  seemed  to  encourage 


ME.  CHEDBY  ON  A  NUISANCE      197 

him  to  think  that  it  might  be  his  dog,  after  all; 
but  I  could  not  help  feeling  that  he  had  his 
doubts  about  the  genuineness  of  my  enthusiasm. 
And,  for  a  fact,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it, 
it  doesn't  look  natural  and  unaffected  to  be  too 
honest  in  horse  and  dog  matters. 

This  became  quite  evident  when,  on  Mr.  Ched- 
by's  proposing  to  look  in  on  me  some  time  in 
the  course  of  the  week  to  see  if  he  could  identify 
the  dog,  I  had  the  indiscretion  to  urge  him  to 
fix  an  earlier  date.  This  chilled  his  interest  to 
such  an  extent  that  he  hastily  decided  that  it 
could  not  be  his  dog,  and  that  if  it  was,  he  didn  't 
want  him,  anyway. 

He  must  have  seen  the  disappointment  on  my 
face,  for  he  went  on  talking  in  a  soothing  strain. 

"The  fact  is,  Mr.  Sage,"  he  said,  as  he  and 
the  roller  drew  up  in  front  of  me;  "the  fact  is 
that  a  man  who  lives  in  one  of  these  suburban 
towns  never  knows  half  the  time  what  he  has 
got  and  what  he  hasn't  got.  I  don't  know;  that 
may  be  my  dog,  or  it  may  not.  Again,  it  may  be 
some  other  man's  dog;  and  I've  got  so  that  I 
sometimes  think  I  don't  care."  He  stacked 
himself  up  against  the  roller  handle,  and  began 
to  discourse  with  the  air  of  a  heavy  philosopher. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  said;  "that's  the  state  we're 
in  in  these  suburban  towns;  and  do  you  know 
what,  in  my  opinion,  is  the  cause  that  brings  it 
about?  It's  the  borrowing  habit,  sir;  the  bor 
rowing  habit!  The  borrowing  habit  has  got  so 
grafted  on  us  that  I  find  it  mighty  hard,  some- 


198     MB.  CHEDBY  ON  A  NUISANCE 

times,  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  the  fatal  in 
fection  that  I  see  all  around  me.  It  begins — it 
strikes  in — just  as  soon  as  a  man  moves  here 
from  the  city.  Take  this  family  that  moved  in 
next  door,  for  instance,  two  days  ago.  I  don't 
suppose  they'd  ever  known  what  it  was  to  bor 
row  a  thing  before  in  their  lives,  but,  Lord !  they 
caught  the  disease  right  off.  First,  they  bor 
rowed  a  box-opener  from  the  man  next  door  on 
the  other  side.  Then  they  sent  over  the  way 
and  borrowed  a  drawing  of  tea.  Then,  by  Jove ! 
they  came  over  here  and  borrowed  some  hot 
water  out  of  the  kitchen  kettle  to  make  the  tea 
with.  "Well,  I  don't  say  anything  against  that. 
Of  course,  when  you  move  into  a  strange  place 
you  have  to  depend  upon  your  neighbors  a  little. 
I  had  to  do  it,  myself,  when  I  first  moved  out 
here.  But  I  only  mention  it  to  show  how  the 
disease  begins.  It  will  be  milk  next;  they  al 
ways  want  to  borrow  milk.  Then  it  will  go  on  to 
butter  and  eggs.  Sugar,  of  course,  and  tea  and 
coffee  right  along — that's  the  regular  thing. 
Pretty  soon  it  will  be  a  bucket  of  coal  or  a 
barrow  load  of  kindlings.  Then  they  get  to 
hanging  pictures  and  putting  up  shelves  around 
the  house,  and  then  it's  hammers  and  saws  and 
nails.  Hammers  and  saws  sometimes  come  back, 
when  you  go  after  them,  but  nails,  never!  I 
knew  a  man  who  lent  a  keg  of  nails,  once,  to  a 
neighbor's  wife.  Some  months  afterward  he 
met  the  neighbor,  and  the  neighbor  says  to  him: 
'Oh,  Smith,  didn't  my  folks  borrow  some  brads 


MR.  CHEDBY  ON  A  NUISANCE      199 

or  nails  or  some  blame  thing  or  other  from  you 
a  while  ago?  I'll  tell  my  hardware  man  to  send 
them  up  to  you.'  Well,  when  Smith  got  home, 
what  do  you  think  he  found?  A  paper  of  carpet 
tacks  from  the  hardware  dealer.  Yes,  sir;  a 
paper  of  carpet  tacks.  Did  he  kick?  Not  much. 
He  knew  he  was  lucky  to  get  even  that.  And, 
talking  about  hammers,  I  can  tell  you  the  fun 
niest  story,  just  to  show  how  this  borrowing 
habit  weakens  a  man's  sense  of  individual  own 
ership  in  property.  Some  time  ago  I  missed  a 
hammer  that  I'd  been  working  with,  and  had 
left  on  the  front  stoop  for  half  an  hour  or  so. 
Next  day  I  met  a  man — I  won't  say  who  he  is, 
but  he  don't  live  far  from  here — and  says  he 
to  me,  'Oh,  Mr.  Chedby,  I  was  going  along  the 
street  here  the  other  day,  and  I  saw  the  hammer 
I  lent  you  lying  on  your  front  stoop.  I  happened 
to  need  it  just  then,  so  I  took  it  along  with  me.' 
Well,  sir,  I  didn't  say  anything  to  him;  but  that 
man  had  no  more  right  to  that  hammer  than 
you  have;  and  it  didn't  look  anything  like  his 
hammer.  The  hammer  he  took  belonged  to  Rob 
inson,  down  the  street  here,  and  his  hammer 
was  up  in  the  garret  in  my  tool-chest  all  the  time. 
But,  of  course,  I  had  to  tell  Robinson,  when  he 
came  out  for  his  hammer.  And  I  understand 
that  there's  been  a  coolness  between  the  two  of 
them  ever  since.  Well,  you  couldn't  expect  any 
thing  else.  That's  one  of  the  indirect  effects  of 
the  disease.  Oh,  I  tell  you,  the  borrowing  habit 
is  the  curse  of  suburban  life.  It's  got  to  be  a 


200     MB.  CHEDBY  ON  A  NUISANCE 

regular  nuisance,  sir;  a  regular  unmitigated, 
unqualified  damned  nuisance,  if  you'll  excuse 
the  profanity." 

Here  Mr.  Chedby  paused  and  mopped  his 
perspiring  forehead.  The  sinking  sun  glowed 
red  through  the  evening  haze.  It  reminded  me 
that  my  homeward  walk  up  the  hill  would  take 
me  longer  than  the  journey  down;  and  that  the 
real  purpose  of  my  mission  had  been  accom 
plished,  even  though  I  hadn't  got  rid  of  the 
dog. 

"Mr.  Chedby,"  I  said,  as  I  turned  away, 
"when  you  are  quite  through  with  using  that 
roller,  will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  send  your  man 
up  to  my  place  with  it?  I've  got  a  lot  of  new 
lawn  to  roll,  or  I'd  be  happy  to  spare  it  to  you 
as  much  longer  as  you  want  it.  But  if  you  can 
send  your  man  up  with  it  in  the  morning,  I'll 
be  much  obliged.  (He  had  no  man;  but  it  is 
a  polite  suburban  fiction  to  assume  that  every 
body  keeps  one.) 

If  I  had  cherished  any  hopes  of  disturbing 
Mr.  Chedby 's  serenity,  I  should  have  been  dis 
appointed. 

"Sho!"  he  said;  "is  that  queer  old  contraption 
yours?  I  was  just  wondering  whoever  owned  it. 
I  got  it  down  the  street  here  at  Higginbotham's. 
The  family  wasn't  at  home,  and  there  was  no 
body  that  could  tell  me  anything  about  it.  Why, 
that  old  thing  has  been  kicking  about  this  neigh 
borhood  for  more  than  six  months." 

"More  than  a  year,  I  think,  Mr.   Chedby," 


MB.  CHEDBY  ON  A  NUISANCE      201 

said  I.  "You'll  send  your  man  up  with  it  in 
the  morning?" 

Mr.  Chedby  looked  at  the  roller  and  then  at 
the  long  road  up  the  hill  to  my  house.  Then 
he  turned  to  me  in  a  burst  of  hearty  cordiality: 

"Why,  I  am  clean  through  with  it,"  he  said. 
"I  wouldn't  have  kept  you  out  of  it  a  minute 
if  I'd  known  you  wanted  it.  You  take  it  right 
along  with  you  now.  Don't  mind  about  me.  My 
work  can  wait.  Take  it  right  along!" 

I  thanked  him  kindly,  but  I  told  him  that  it 
would  be  quite  time  enough  if  his  man  brought 
it  up  in  the  morning. 


EARLY  STAGES  OF  THE 
BLOOMER  FEVER 

FOR  several  weeks  this  Spring  I  was  a  hay- 
widower.  I  take  this  term  to  be  the  mas 
culine  equivalent  of  "grass- widow"  as 
applied  to  a  member  of  a  matrimonial  firm  tem 
porarily  parted  from  the  rest  of  the  household, 
and  leading  a  separate  but  not  wholly  independ 
ent  existence.  By  whatever  name  you  choose 
to  call  my  state,  I  was  certainly,  for  the  time 
being,  quite  bereft  of  family  ties.  Mrs.  Sage 
and  the  children  and  the  children's  nurse  were 
all  visiting  Mrs.  Sage's  family  to  foregather 
with  an  elderly  uncle  who  had  just  returned 
from  India  in  a  state  of  sickening  and  offensive 
affluence.  Personally,  I  do  not  believe  that  he 
will  ever  pan  out  one  cent's  worth;  but  that  is 
neither  here  nor  there.  The  domestic  staff  had 
been  allowed  a  vacation,  all  except  Bartholo 
mew.  Bartholomew  is  our  man — or,  at  least,  as 
near  to  the  man  as  we  have  yet  got.  Newcomers 
in  the  town  speak  of  him  as  a  boy,  until  they 
get  into  suburban  ways,  and  learn  that  that  is 
not  polite  either  to  him  or  to  his  employer.  Bar 
tholomew  remained  to  guard  the  house,  and  in 
this  occupation  he  took  great  pride  and  pleas 
ure,  for  it  gave  him  a  good  excuse  for  sleeping 
with  his  grandfather's  old  percussion-cap  shot 
gun  by  his  bedside,  so  that  he  could  be  able  to 

202 


THE    BLOOMER   FEVER  203 

repel  burglars  at  a  moment's  notice.  You  might 
have  abstracted  seventeen  steel  safes  from  the 
house  without  awakening  Bartholomew,  and  no 
earthly  power  could  ever  have  made  that  gun  go 
off;  but  Bartholomew  slept  proud  and  happy  all 
the  same. 

I  made  no  use  of  my  lonely  mansion,  except 
to  go  there  to  do  my  work,  which  is  the  writing 
of  such  things  as  this.  I  had  no  need  to  dwell 
within  its  silent  walls.  The  lot  of  a  hay-widower 
in  a  suburban  town  is  not  unhappy  by  any 
means;  in  fact,  his  condition  makes  him  a  valu 
able  member  of  society.  He  may  be  invited  to 
dinner  without  his  wife — and  every  housekeeper 
knows  what  that  means.  It  is  one  thing  to  in 
vite  the  unobservant  male  animal  to  take  pot- 
luck  with  you,  and  it  is  quite  another  to  sub 
ject  the  every-day  fatigue-dress  style  of  your 
domestic  economy  to  the  keen  and  critical  femi 
nine  eye.  So  it  came  about  that  I  got  not  only 
dinner  invitations,  but  bids  to  stay  a  week  at 
this  house  and  a  week  at  that,  and  I  made  quite 
a  picnic  of  my  desolation  and  abandonment. 

Now,  when  I  say  I  am  going  to  give  you  an 
abstract  of  a  study  in  feminine  ethics,  wrhich  I 
made  under  the  roof  of  my  good  friend,  Biddle- 
by,  I  want  you  to  understand  that  I  am  violating 
no  confidence  imposed  upon  me  by  the  generous 
hospitality  which  I  enjoyed.  I  make  this  state 
ment  with  Mrs.  Biddleby's  full  consent  and  per 
mission. 

I   am   fond    of   making    studies    of    feminine 


204  THE   BLOOMER   FEVER 

methods  of  marital  management.  I  know,  of 
course,  that  I,  myself,  am  managed  at  home; 
but  I  do  not  know  just  how  it  is  done,  and  I 
am  not  likely  to  be  let  to  know.  But  while  the 
process  of  management  is  generally  impercepti 
ble  to  the  husband  who  is  being  managed,  it  is 
often  quite  clearly  visible  to  the  casual  on 
looker;  and  it  amuses  me  greatly  to  see  the 
manipulation  of  my  fellows.  Whatever  I  may 
think  of  myself,  I  can  smile  a  superior  smile 
at  their  weakness  and  blindness.  I  will  now 
proceed  to  my  brief  statement,  which  is  based 
partly  upon  what  Mrs.  Biddleby  afterward  told 
me. 

It  happened  one  day  as,  in  going  to  my  room, 
I  passed  by  the  door  of  Mrs.  Biddleby 9s  sewing- 
room,  the  draught  of  an  open  window  blew 
against  my  feet  three  or  four  pieces  of  light- 
brown  tissue  paper  cut  into  curious  shapes,  and 
perforated  with  many  little  round  holes.  Seeing 
that  there  was  nobody  around  to  take  charge 
of  them,  I  carried  them  into  the  sewing-room 
and  looked  for  something  heavy  to  lay  on  them. 
The  only  thing  I  found  was  a  huge  pamphlet 
that  lay  open  on  a  chair.  I  could  not  help 
noticing  that  the  open  pages  showed  a  number 
of  designs  for  a  garment  then  coming  noticeably 
into  general  use,  but  still  regarded  in  conserva 
tive  feminine  circles  with  a  certain  degree  of 
distrust  and  even  disfavor.  I  need  not  say  that 
I  got  out  of  the  room  quickly  and  quietly;  and 
that  I  tried  not  to  consider  the  remarkable  like- 


THE   BLOOMER   FEVER  205 

ness  in  shape  between  the  pieces  of  paper  I  had 
gathered  up  and  certain  dotted  designs  on  the 
paper  under  my  eye.  I  knew,  of  course,  that 
Mrs.  Biddleby  was  taking  bicycle  lessons. 

The  next  day  I  brought  the  Biddleby  mail 
home  with  my  own  when  I  came  from  the  post- 
office,  and  it  consisted  principally  of  bulky  en 
velopes  bearing  the  names  of  New  York  dry- 
goods  houses.  I  have  been  so  long  married  that 
it  would  be  idle  to  deny  that  I  knew  that  they 
contained  samples  of  dress  goods.  I  also  knew 
that  Mrs.  Biddleby  had  recently  expressed  her 
satisfaction  with  having  got  done  with  the  dress 
makers,  for  that  season,  at  least. 

It  was  some  two  or  three  days  after  this,  that 
as  I  was  going  from  my  house  to  Biddleby 's, 
I  encountered  Mrs.  Biddleby  and  three  of  her 
friends  practicing  bicycle  riding  on  a  smooth 
stretch  of  macadam  road.  They  had  evidently 
got  beyond  the  care  of  their  tutor,  but  they  were 
still  taking  turns  at  practice  work  on  a  hired 
bicycle.  I  joined  them,  for  they  were  evidently 
quite  past  the  nervous  state,  and  I  sat  with  those 
who  wTere  not  riding,  on  a  low  stone  wrall,  and 
watched  the  rider  on  the  wheel  exhibit  her  newly 
acquired  skill.  Mrs.  Biddleby  was  easily  the 
cleverest  and  most  self-possessed  rider  of  them 
all,  and  I  was  somewhat  surprised  when  she 
dismounted  and  sat  down  beside  us,  and  said 
in  an  almost  petulant  tone: 

"Well,  I  declare,  I  really  don't  know  what 
I  am  going  to  do  about  it!  I  am  afraid  I  shall 


206  THE   BLOOMER   FEVER 

have  to  give  the  whole  thing  up.  I  certainly 
can't  attempt  to  ride  if  my  skirt  keeps  catching 
the  way  it  does." 

I  had  not  observed  that  her  skirt  had  caught, 
and  I  was  just  exactly  fool  enough  to  tell  her  so. 

"Oh,  well,  you  couldn't  have  noticed,  or  per 
haps  you're  just  saying  so  out  of  kindness,  but 
I  came  near  having  a  terrible  fall  twice  on  my 
way  up  the  road  and  once  coming  down;  and 
I'm  sure  I've  ripped  every  bit  of  binding  off 
on  this  side.  Look  there!"  and  she  pointed  to 
where  nearly  three-quarters  of  an  inch  of  braid 
had  fetched  loose. 

"Skirts  are  a  perfect  misery,  anyway,"  said 
Miss  Applegate,  the  next  best  rider  in  the  quar 
tette;  and  she  turned  to  me,  and  added,  auda 
ciously:  "I  do  sometimes  wish  that  women  could 
dress  the  same  way  you  men  do — " 

"I  agree  with  you  entirely,"  said  Mrs.  Bid- 
dleby.  "And,  do  you  know,  when  I  was  down 
on  the  River  Road  the  other  day,  and  saw  one 
of  those  women  coming  along  with  bloomers  on, 
I  almost  envied  the  vulgar  thing,  she  looked  so 
easy  and  comfortable." 

"Oh,  Milly!  how  can  you  say  so?"  cried  an 
other  of  the  ladies;  but  a  fourth  came  to  Mrs. 
Biddleby's  assistance. 

"Well,  I  saw  her,  too;  and,  do  you  know,  I 
was  thinking  the  very  same  thing.  And,  really, 
Mrs.  Biddleby,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  didn't 
think  she  looked  vulgar  a  bit." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  as  I  ought  to  have  called 


THE   BLOOMER   FEVER  207 

her  exactly  vulgar,"  Mrs.  Biddleby  amended; 
''but,  of  course,  you  know,  it  does  look  a  little 
—how  shall  I  call  it? — unconventional." 

Then  all  the  four  ladies  held  a  little  autopsy 
on  the  word,  and  decided  that  the  English  lan 
guage  didn't  furnish  anything  suitable.  So  they 
had  recourse  to  French  and  called  it  outre. 

"Well,  I  don't  care,"  said  Mrs.  Biddleby, 
summing  up;  "I  think  we're  all  of  us  too  much 
slaves  of  fashion,  and  I  am  sure  if  I  thought  I 
could  look  half  as  well  in  them  as  that  woman 
did,  I  should  wear  them,  whatever  people  might 
say. ' ' 

Encouraged  by  this  bold  stand,  the  lady  who 
had  been  so  shocked  at  first  said  that  she  thought 
so,  too,  and  she  had  all  along. 

Then  I  put  my  foot  into  it  again.    I  said: 

"If  your  skirts  catch,  why  couldn't  you  make 
them  a  little  shorter?" 

Mrs.  Biddleby  turned  on  me  in  a  very  pretty 
flame  of  indignation,  and  exhibited  her  skirt, 
which  was  so  high  that  it  absolutely  exposed  a 
small  sample  of  her  ankle;  and  she  said: 

"There,  you  wouldn't  have  me  wear  any 
shorter  skirt  than  that,  would  you?  Why  it's 
positively  indecent  as  it  is!  No;  of  course  you 
men  don't  know  about  such  things;  but  I  can 
tell  you  that  a  woman  takes  her  life  in  her  hands 
every  time  that  she  goes  on  a  bicycle  with  a 
skirt  on." 

Mrs.  Biddleby  had  made  her  husband  promise 


208  THE   BLOOMER   FEVER 

to  buy  her  a  machine  as  soon  as  she  had  learned 
to  ride  really  well;  but  Biddleby,  for  a  reason 
which  I  will  mention  later  on,  was  quite  cool 
about  the  project.  Therefore,  it  devolved  upon 
Mrs.  Biddleby  to  bring  up  the  topic  every  day, 
so  as  to  keep  him  informed  of  her  progress. 
Hitherto  her  reports  had  been  cheerful  and  en 
couraging;  but  this  evening  I  noticed  that  she 
dwelt  at  great  length  on  the  bruises  and  sprains 
she  had  suffered  when  she  fell,  in  consequence 
of  catching  her  skirt  in  the  sprocket.  The  next 
morning  &t  breakfast,  she  was  so  lame  that  she 
could  hardly  move,  and  very  low  in  her  mind. 
She  told  Biddleby  that  he  wasn't  sorry  enough 
for  her.  He  said  yes,  he  was,  and  suggested 
arnica.  She  explained  that  she  suffered  princi 
pally  in  her  mind,  because  she  feared  she  would 
have  to  give  up  riding,  just  as  she  was  doing  so 
well.  Biddleby  said  just  what  I  said  about  the 
skirts,  and  got  just  what  I  got.  Then  the  lady 
hooked  her  fish. 

"Well,"  said  Biddleby,  as  he  got  up  to  take 
the  train,  "if  that's  the  case,  I  don't  see  what 
you  can  do  about  it,  dear,  unless  you  get  a  pair 
of  those  two-legged  thinguma jiggers — what  do 
you  call  them?" 

"Oh,  Henry!"  cried  his  wife,  in  tones  of  hor 
ror;  "you  wouldn't  have  me  wear  bloomers!" 

"Better  than  breaking  your  neck,  I  should 
think,"  said  Henry,  absent-mindedly,  as  he  went 
out  of  the  door. 


THE   BLOOMER   FEVER  209 

Next  day  it  rained,  and  the  day  after  that. 
The  third  day,  however,  was  fair,  and,  as  soon 
as  the  bicycle  lessons  began,  I  joined  the  ladies. 
They  had  not  reached  the  ground  more  than  two 
minutes  in  advance  of  me,  but  as  soon  as  I  came 
up  I  heard  Mrs.  Biddleby  saying: 

"Do  you  know,  my  dear,  I  really  don't  know 
what  I  shall  do.  Henry  is  absolutely  set  on  the 
idea  of  my  wearing  bloomers,  and  you  know  how 
determined  he  is  when  he  gets  an  idea  into  his 
head.  Why,  only  day  before  yesterday  he  said 
to  me,  as  he  was  going  to  the  train:  'My  dear, 
it  is  simply  a  case  of  life  and  death,  and  you. 
should  not  let  any  other  considerations  outweigh 
that!'" 

I  lingered  with  them  only  four  or  five  minutes ; 
but  before  I  left,  the  three  other  dear  humbugs 
had  banded  themselves  together  to  wear  bloom 
ers,  just  by  way  of  giving  moral  support  to  Mrs. 
Biddleby. 

But  this  is  not  quite  all.  Here  is  Biddleby 's 
reason  for  looking  coldly  on  the  bicycle  project, 
as  stated  to  me  when  the  lessons  first  began: 

"I'd  be  more  than  glad  to  get  my  wife  a 
bicycle  if  it  wasn't  that  I've  heard  so  much  about 
accidents  that  happen  to  women  riding  in  long 
dresses;  and,  of  course,  there's  no  consideration 
on  the  face  of  the  earth  that  would  make  Mrs. 
Biddleby  put  on  one  of  those  sensible  Zouave 
trouser  rigs — what  do  they  call  them,  now? — 
Bloomers?  Oh,  yes!  that's  the  name." 


THE    SUBURBAN    HORSE 

I  HAVE  often  wondered  where  the  suburban 
horse   lives  before   he   comes   to   the    sub 
urbs;  and  I  have  sometimes  thought  that 
there  must  be  people  who  make  a  special  busi 
ness  of  going  about  all  over  the   country  and 
collecting  misfit  horses  of  odd,  job-lot  sizes  and 
styles,  for  distribution  in  suburban  towns. 

City  horses  and  real  country  horses  may  be 
readily  divided  into  various  grades  and  classes; 
recognizable  even  to  one  as  ignorant  of  such 
matters  as  I  am.  Though  every  householder 
here — except  myself — owns  one  horse,  at  least, 
I  am  sure  that  you  could  not  pick  anything 
remotely  resembling  a  matched  pair  out  of  the 
whole  lot.  I  am  speaking,  of  course,  of  the  true 
suburban  horse.  I  have  several  neighbors  of 
sporty  proclivities,  who  own  costly  teams  of 
high-blooded  horses,  which  are  spoken  of  in  a 
reverential  sort  of  way  as  "fine  actors,"  or 
"grand  steppers."  I  do  not  speak  from  personal 
knowledge  of  the  quality  of  these  animals ;  I  only 
know  that  they  walk  as  if  they  had  corns,  and 
that  they  are  always  sick;  and  these,  I  am  as 
sured,  are  signs  of  high  blood  and  great  com 
mercial  value  in  a  horse.  But  I  am  not  speak 
ing  about  animals  such  as  these.  You  may  see 

210 


THE    SUBURBAN   HORSE  211 

their  like  everywhere  where  people  are  trying  to 
get  rid  of  their  money.  But  the  suburban  horse 
belongs  to  the  suburbs,  and  is  a  thing  to  be 
studied  all  by  himself. 

In  the  first  place,  he  is  no  particular  kind  of 
horse — or  he  is  any  and  every  kind,  as  you  please 
to  put  it.  His  quality,  character  and  station 
among  horses  depend  almost  entirely  upon  his 
ownership  and  employment;  and  he  has  only 
to  change  hands  to  change  his  nature.  He  is 
one  horse  if  you  own  him,  and  another  horse  if 
7  own  him ;  and  he  may  be  any  number  of  horses 
in  the  course  of  his  long  and  peaceful  but  much 
varied  existence.  Having  no  horse  or  carriage 
of  my  own,  good  or  bad,  to  provide  for,  I  am  a 
mere  spectator  of  other  men's  horses,  and  how 
the}7  play  their  parts,  and  you  have  no  idea  how 
diversely  they  are  presented  unto  me. 

Take  the  case  of  Rix,  for  instance.  I  take 
his  case  because  he  is  the  horse  I  know  best, 
and  because  he  is  one  of  the  very  few  that  I  can 
recognize  at  sight.  In  the  way  of  horse-flesh  it 
takes  something,  as  a  rule,  about  as  showy  as 
a  calico  circus  pony  to  attract  my  attention  and 
fix  itself  in  my  memory.  But  Rix  and  I  got  per 
sonally  acquainted  when  I  first  came  to  the  town, 
and  I  have  since  watched  his  checkered  career 
with  a  friendly  interest. 

When  I  first  knew  him  he  belonged  to  a 
market-gardener  in  the  next  county,  who  used  to 
come  to  my  door  with  his  vegetables.  The  gar 
dener  was  a  very  intelligent  man,  and  I  got  into 


212  THE   SUBUKBAN  HORSE 

the  habit  of  talking  botany  with  him  while  I  fed 
his  own  things  to  his  own  horse.  The  town  was 
quite  small  then,  and  decidedly  lonely  at  times, 
and  even  tree-peddlers  and  book-agents  were 
welcomed  with  a  cordiality  and  courtesy  that 
sometimes  lured  them  into  thinking  that  we 
meant  to  buy.  So  I  used  to  be  very  glad  to 
see  Eix  and  the  market-gardener,  and  when  the 
latter  gave  up  the  business  because  he  said  there 
was  no  profit  in  it,  I  really  felt  considerable  re 
morse  for  the  way  I  had  pampered  his  animal 
with  luxuries  at  his  expense. 

The  gardener  asked  me  if  I  knew  anybody 
who  wanted  to  buy  a  horse.  I  told  him  that  I 
had  heard  the  old  butcher  in  Orchard  Lane  say 
something  about  buying  a  horse;  and  he  asked 
me  to  speak  to  the  butcher  about  it.  This  I  did, 
and  they  met  in  my  back  yard,  and  the  bargain 
was  struck.  I  never  saw  my  friend,  the  gar 
dener,  again;  but  when  Eix  came  around  with 
the  butcher's  meat,  I  felt  as  though  he  were 
quite  an  old  acquaintance. 

Now,  up  to  this  date,  I  wish  you  to  observe, 
the  horse  was  devoid  of  any  noticeable  character 
istic.  He  had  no  pedigree.  The  gardener  had 
bought  him  from  a  wandering  Swede,  and  had 
named  him  Eix-Dollar,  with  a  vague  idea  that 
he  ought  to  do  something  Scandinavian  in  the 
matter.  He  was  a  very  dark  bay  horse,  neither 
large  nor  small,  of  an  equable  disposition,  and 
quite  sound  and  healthy.  Indeed,  I  may  say  for 
Eix  that  he  was  never  sick  but  once  in  his  life. 


THE   SUBURBAN  HORSE  213 

I  was  present  when  the  butcher  bought  him,  and 
I  heard  his  points  discussed;  but  I  could  not 
make  out  that  they  were  different  from  those 
of  any  other  horse. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  months  the  old  butcher 
died,  and  left  no  immediate  successor.  I  had  to 
go  elsewhere  for  my  meat;  and  I  really  missed 
the  sight  of  Rix  jogging  deliberately  on  his  daily 
rounds,  with  the  white-bearded  old  butcher  half- 
asleep  in  the  wagon. 

But  one  day  we  heard  that  a  new  butcher  had 
taken  the  old  place;  and  that  the  new  butcher 
was  a  great  sport,  and  was  going  to  make  things 
hum  in  the  meat  business  in  our  town.  I  strolled 
around  to  Orchard  Lane  to  see  what  the  new 
butcher  was  like.  He  was  not  in  his  shop;  but 
as  I  started  homeward  I  heard  a  furious  clatter 
of  hoofs  down  the  street,  and,  casting  up  my 
eyes,  beheld  a  large,  red-faced  stranger  in  a 
showy  vehicle  of  the  dog-cart  sort,  driving  a 
dark  bay  horse  at  a  rattling  clip.  The  man  was 
the  new  butcher,  and  the  horse  was  Rix — Rix 
in  a  showy  harness  with  brass  trimmings  all  over 
him,  with  bracelets  on  his  ankles,  and  with  a 
patent-leather  shine  on  his  hoofs.  I  marvelled 
much.  The  butcher  did  not  interest  me;  but  it 
was  clear  to  my  mind  that  either  Rix  was  acting 
a  part  now,  or  that  he  had  heretofore  dissem 
bled  his  true  character.  I  didn't  particularly 
object  to  his  present  frivolous  worldliness,  but 
I  thought  he  ought  to  have  let  me  know  before 
that  he  was  that  kind  of  a  horse. 


214  THE   SUBURBAN  HORSE 

Shortly  after  this,  a  friend  of  mine,  whose 
knowledge  of  the  noble  Horse  was  so  profound 
and  pervasive  that  it  came  out  in  his  clothes, 
spent  a  few  days  with  me  looking  about  the 
town,  with  a  view  to  taking  a  house  in  the  suc 
ceeding  Fall.  He  happened  to  see  the  butcher 
drive  by  behind  Rix,  and  he  was  as  much  im 
pressed  as  a  really  horsey  person  ever  allows 
himself  to  be.  He  told  me  that  the  dog-cart  was 
entirely  incorrect  in  the  matter  of  style,  and 
that  the  butcher  didn't  know  how  to  drive;  but 
that  the  horse  was  an  uncommonly  neat  little 
animal,  and  that  if  he,  my  friend,  had  that  horse 
for  six  months,  he  could  make  something  of  him. 

"I've  owned  worse,  myself,  my  boy,  before 
this,  I  can  tell  you,"  he  said,  patting  me  encour 
agingly  on  the  shoulder ;  and  I  felt  that  his  praise 
of  Rix  reflected  a  certain  glory  on  the  whole 
township,  including  myself.  I  didn't  say  any 
thing  to  him  about  Rix's  earlier  days;  for  I 
always  make  it  a  point  to  go  light  on  such  par 
ticulars  when  I  am  talking  with  a  man  who 
wears  horse-shoe  pins,  and  has  gold  whips  and 
wheels  and  axle-trees,  and  other  miniature  imi 
tations  of  stable  upholstery  on  his  watch-chain. 

A  few  weeks  later  my  friend  wrote  to  me, 
asking  me  to  see  if  I  could  buy  Rix  for  him,  and 
have  him  kept  on  a  neighboring  stock-farm  until 
the  Fall.  He  named  the  figure  which  he  was 
willing  to  "go"  for  the  horse.  It  was  a  figure 
that  amazed  me  greatly,  when  I  remembered  the 
modest  price  for  which  he  had  been  sold  in  my 


THE  SUBURBAN  HORSE  215 

back  yard.  But  I  knew  better  than  to  say  any 
thing  about  this  to  my  friend;  for  he  was  a  very 
good  friend,  and  I  should  have  hated  to  lose  him. 
Fortunately,  it  made  no  practical  difference;  for 
the  sporty  butcher  had  failed  and  fled  from  his 
creditors,  and  Rix  was  legally  in  the  custody  of 
the  Sheriff,  and  bodily  in  a  pasture  lot  adjoining 
my  place,  whence  he  occasionally  wandered  into 
my  wife's  flower-garden,  and  ate  indiscrimi 
nately.  Later  in  the  season,  a  retired  clergyman, 
with  a  family  of  five  elderly  daughters,  came  to 
board  in  my  neighborhood,  bringing  letters  of 
introduction  to  me.  He  was  in  search  of  a  re 
tired  place  in  which  to  write  a  six-volume  work 
on  palaeontology.  After  he  had  paid  me  six 
or  eight  protracted  calls  and  set  this  fact  forth 
at  full  length,  I  found  him  a  retired  place  at  a 
distance  of  about  seven  miles.  He  rewarded  my 
kindness  by  hiring  Rix  from  the  Sheriff  and 
driving  his  whole  family  into  town  three  times 
a  w^eek. 

In  the  Fall  my  friend,  whom  I  shall  call  Mr. 
Fornand,  came,  and  took  a  house  in  the  town. 
He  had  to  run  out  every  day  for  a  week  or  so, 
to  get  settled,  and  he  frequently  took  his  lunch 
eon  at  my  house.  This  was  very  pleasant  for 
me,  not  only  because  my  friend  was  good  com 
pany,  but  because  I  stretched  a  point  and  told 
the  palaeontological  clergyman  that  I  had  a  gen 
tleman  who  raced  horses  staying  at  my  house, 
and  he  promptly  stopped  making  visits  to  town. 
He  stopped  for  so  long,  indeed,  that  I  had  al- 


216  THE   SUBURBAN  HOESE 

most  forgotten  him  and  Rix,  too,  when  one  day 
I  came  across  his  capacious  carryall  standing  at 
the  station.  He  told  me  that  he  was  going  away, 
and  that  the  Sheriff  was  going  to  meet  him 
there,  and  take  charge  of  Rix  again.  Part  of 
this  was  not  pleasant  news  to  me;  and  when, 
as  I  was  hurrying  homeward,  I  caught  up  with 
Fornand  going  in  the  same  direction,  and,  shortly 
afterward,  the  Sheriff  drove  past  us  behind  Rix, 
I  said  somewhat  hastily  to  my  friend: 

"There,  Fornand,  there's  that  horse  of  the 
butcher's  you  wanted  to  buy  in  the  Spring.  I 
think  you  could  get  him  now." 

As  soon  as  I  had  said  this  I  knew  that  I 
had  made  a  mistake.  A  Summer  of  palaeon 
tology  had  told  on  Rix,  and  he  had  absorbed 
something  of  the  depressed  and  mildewed  ap 
pearance  of  the  prehistoric  carryall  behind  him. 
But  I  confess  I  was  somewhat  startled  when  my 
friend  burst  out  in  wild  guffaws  of  derisive 
mirth,  and  shouted: 

"That  horse  the  one  I  was  looking  at?  Why, 
Great  Scott!  if  that  isn't  the  funniest  thing  I 
have  heard  in  a  year!  That  horse  the  butcher's? 
Well,  Sage,  I  always  knew  you  were  pretty  green 
about  horses,  but  I  did  think  you  had  enough 
gumption  to  know  a  first-class  animal  from  an 
old  plug  like  that." 

I  didn't  attempt  to  argue  with  him;  I  was 
ashamed,  anyway,  of  Rix's  present  appearance, 
and  I  thought  I  would  let  the  matter  drop.  But 
it  didn't  drop.  He  guffawed  all  the  way  up  to 


THE   SUBURBAN  HOESE  217 

the  house,  and  then  he  told  my  wife  what  a  big 
joke  he  had  on  me.  Afterward  my  wife  said 
to  me,  kindly  but  pitifully: 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  didn't  think  you  knew  much 
about  horses;  but  I  should  have  thought  you 
would  have  known  Rix." 

For  one  moment  I  thought  of  setting  myself 
right ;  and  then  I  concluded  to  accept  my  humilia 
tion  as  a  deserved  punishment.  When  a  man 
carries  Christian  forbearance  to  the  extent  of 
making  a  plumb  fool  of  himself,  he  ought  to  take 
the  consequences. 

Eix  went  at  Sheriff's  sale  to  the  teamster 
who  carted  away  my  ashes,  and  to  whom  I  ad 
vanced  twenty  dollars  to  buy  him.  He  came  to 
the  house  twice  a  week,  but  I  hated  to  see  him 
now,  for  he  had  become  a  neglected-looking, 
disreputable,  shaggy-haired  brute,  with  worn 
spots  here  and  there  on  him,  and  a  generally 
moth-eaten  appearance.  I  was  glad  when  the 
teamster  sold  him  to  the  local  expressman,  al 
though  he  was  not  a  success  in  his  new  place. 
Having  grown  accustomed  to  hauling  shamefully 
heavy  loads,  he  suddenly  found  himself  hitched, 
one  fine  Spring  morning,  shortly  before  Easter 
Sunday,  to  a  light  wagon,  laden  principally  with 
paste-board  boxes  that  had  just  arrived  from 
New  York.  When  he  started  to  pull  on  this,  he 
became  intoxicated  with  his  comparative  free 
dom,  and  ran  away  down  the  street,  scattering 
Easter  millinery  and  dry-goods  right  and  left. 
He  was  sent  to  the  livery  stable  for  safe-keep- 


218  THE  SUBUEBAN  HOESE 

ing;  and  there  a  tramp  stable-boy,  who  had 
been  a  jockey,  bought  him  for  five  dollars,  took 
him  in  hand,  treated  him  in  the  mysterious  ways 
that  are  known  to  jockeys,  and  actually  got  him 
into  such  a  condition  that  he  sold  him  to  an 
undertaker  who  had  just  started  a  shop  in  the 
town.  The  undertaker  was  a  man  who  took 
pride  in  his  business,  and  he  fattened  Eix  up 
and  groomed  him  and  broke  him  to  hearse  so 
thoroughly  that  in  a  few  months  he  was  as  sleek 
and  wholesome-looking  a  horse  as  you  would 
wish  to  see,  and  I  felt  proud  of  him  whenever  I 
met  him.  He  attended  only  two  or  three  fu 
nerals,  but  his  dignity  and  style  were  much  ad 
mired.  When  the  undertaker  gave  up  and  went 
in  search  of  an  unhealthier  town,  there  was  lively 
competition  for  Eix  at  the  auction  of  the  busi 
ness  effects.  He  went  to  a  local  horse-dealer 
for  one  hundred  and  forty  dollars.  I  attended 
the  sale  out  of  curiosity.  As  I  was  going  away 
I  met  my  friend  Fornand,  and  I  saw  from  his 
sheepish  manner  and  from  his  vain  endeavors 
to  keep  the  catalogue  which  he  held,  out  of 
my  sight,  that  he  had  been  among  the  unsuc 
cessful  bidders.  I  couldn't  help  it,  and  I  didn't 
want  to.  I  asked  him  what  he  wanted  with 
that  old  plug.  He  reddened  up;  but  he  had  too 
much  capital  invested  in  horsey  jewelry  to  let 
me  call  him  down. 

"That  horse  is  no  plug,"  said  he,  "though 
he  may  have  looked  like  one  at  one  time.  The 
man  who's  driving  may  be  a  plug,  and  that 


THE   SUBURBAN  HORSE  219 

makes  a  horse  look  like  a  plug;  but  if  yon  knew 
as  much  about  a  horse  as  I  do,  Sage,  you'd 
know  that  in  the  hands  of  a  right  kind  of  man 
that  would  be  the  right  kind  of  horse.  And 
when  your  uncle  tells  you  that,  you  don't  want 
to  forget  it." 

Consequently  he  hired  Rix  from  his  new 
owner,  and  put  him  into  a  scratch  spike-team 
that  he  got  up  to  impress  a  Bergen  Point  man 
who  was  thinking  of  buying  his  house.  This 
occasioned  Rix's  one  sickness.  He  caught  pink 
eye  from  a  thoroughbred. 

Since  then  Rix  has  been  in  several  hands; 
but  he  is  still  recognizable  to  his  old  friends. 
He  worked  on  a  milk  route  for  a  while,  which 
quite  incapacitated  him  for  the  work  of  the 
homoeopathic  physician  who  bought  him  next, 
and  who  was  dreadfully  embarrassed  by  being 
drawn  up  in  front  of  various  houses  where 
nothing  on  earth  would  have  induced  the  in 
mates  to  call  in  an  irregular  practitioner. 

He  is  now  pulling  the  phaeton  of  an  aged 
invalid  lady,  under  the  guidance  of  a  groom  in 
half-livery.  From  what  I  know  of  him,  he  is 
trying  his  best  to  assume  the  demeanor  of  quiet, 
slow-going  and  responsible  respectability  suit 
able  to  his  present  position.  What  changes  of 
social  status  and  personal  appearance  may  be 
in  store  for  him  I  cannot  tell;  for  he  is  hardly 
more  than  fourteen  years  old,  and,  for  a  subur 
ban  horse,  that  is  the  prime  of  life. 


THE    BUILDING    CRAZE 

I  DROPPED  in  to  see  my  young  friend 
Pinxter  the  other  night.  I  knew  that  it 
was  Mrs.  Pinxter 's  Singing  Society  night, 
and  I  thought  that  Pinxter  might  be  lonely.  He 
has  not  been  long  enough  in  the  town  for  people 
to  get  in  the  way  of  dropping  in  on  him;  and 
he  cannot  go  out  when  his  wife  is  absent;  for 
they  are  on  their  first  baby,  and  they  don't  think 
it  ought  to  be  left  alone  with  the  nurse.  On 
such  occasions  Pinxter  is  generally  almost  effu 
sively  grateful  for  my  visits.  But  the  other 
night  I  noticed  a  marked  difference  in  his  man 
ner.  I  could  not  call  him  cool;  indeed,  he  re 
marked,  in  the  course  of  conversation,  that  he 
had  never  met  such  friends  anywhere  as  he  had 
met  in  our  town,  and  that  I  was  the  dearest  of 
them.  But  he  certainly  was  absent-minded  and 
preoccupied,  and  could  not  help  showing  some 
slight  signs  of  relief  and  satisfaction  when  I  got 
up  to  depart,  after  a  very  brief  stay. 

Do  not  think  that  I  was  offended  at  my  re 
ception,  and  left  early  for  that  reason.  I  was 
not  in  the  least  hurt.  As  I  was  approaching 
the  room  through  the  hallway,  I  had  seen  Pinxter 
hastily  slip  some  loose  sheets  of  paper  into  a 

220 


THE   BUILDING   CRAZE  221 

big  flat  book,  like  an  atlas,  and  thrust  the  book 
under  the  side-board.  During  all  my  call  his 
left  hand  was  playing  with  a  newly  sharpened 
drawing-pencil.  Having  seen  this  much,  I  had 
but  to  look  at  his  abstracted  countenance,  and  to 
calculate  the  length  of  his  residence  in  the  sub 
urbs,  to  know  perfectly  well  that  Pinxter  was 
under  the  spell  of  the  Building  Craze,  and  dead 
to  the  social  world  for  the  time  being. 

I  have  seen  so  many,  many  cases  that  it  is 
an  old  story  to  me ;  especially  as  one  case  differs 
from  another  only  in  degree  of  virulence,  and 
not  at  all  in  'character.  Pinxter 's  will  be  like 
every  other  case  that  I  have  seen;  and  the 
breaking  out  of  the  fever  at  the  normal  and 
usual  period  only  shows  that  he  is  a  natural- 
born  suburbanite,  for  such  alone  does  the  dis 
ease  attack.  A  man  who  can  live  a  year  in  a 
growing  suburban  town  without  wanting  to  build 
is  a  man  whom  Fate  is  pointing  with  inexorable 
finger  to  the  penal  cells  of  a  New  York  flat. 

The  disease  usually  begins  to  fasten  itself  on 
young  people  like  the  Pinxters  during  their  first 
Summer  in  the  suburbs.  Its  approach  is  gentle, 
but  insidious.  It  begins  to  come  on  when  they 
find  out  that  they  are  permitted  to  roam  at 
will  over  cottages  in  process  of  construction. 
This  is  a  new  and  strange  joy,  and  at  first  they 
go  about  in  simple,  unaffected  wonderment,  mak 
ing  innocent  guesses  at  the  mysteries  of  car 
pentry  and  mason-work.  Then  they  get  bolder 
and  begin  to  criticise  and  offer  suggestions, 


222  THE   BUILDING   CRAZE 

which  last  are  rejected  by  the  mechanics  with 
profound  scorn  and  a  flow  of  technical  language 
that  utterly  abashes  the  suggester. 

But  nothing  checks  the  progress  of  the  dis 
ease  when  it  has  once  started  on  its  course.  In 
the  next  stage,  the  victim  begins  to  learn  the 
technical  talk  for  himself.  By  the  end  of  the 
Summer  it  is  not  uncommon  to  hear  the  victims 
using  lightly  and  airily  such  words  as:  " flash 
ing,"  "rabbet,"  "mould-board,"  "valley,"  and 
"popout."  Some  even  learn  that  in  the  build 
ing  trades  there  is  no  change  in  the  plural  of 
certain  familiar  names,  such  as  "sash,"  "strip," 
"blind"  and  "joist";  and  that  "cornice"  is  not 
pronounced  as  it  is  spelled.  That  is,  for  in 
stance,  the  professional  builder  does  not  say 
"those  cornices,"  but  "them  cornish." 

Then  comes  the  Fall,  and  they  see  the  build 
ings  finished  that  were  a  while  ago  only  a 
mystery  of  naked  timbers.  Until  the  new  oc 
cupants  move  in,  they  may  still  roam  through 
the  bare  rooms,  and  pick  out  what  they  don't 
like  about  each  house.  And  when  the  tenants 
move  in,  there  is  the  delight  of  calling  upon 
them,  and  finding  out  what  they  think  of  the 
habitations  that  are  supposed  to  have  been 
shaped  to  fit  them. 

Winter,  of  course,  puts  an  end  to  all  this; 
but  it  initiates  the  most  interesting  and  active 
stage  of  the  disease.  The  Pinxters  begin  to 
DRAW  PLANS. 

The   first   plan   that    Pinxter    draws   will   be 


THE   BUILDING   CEAZE  223 

drawn  on  the  back  of  an  envelope.  It  will  be 
a  simple  geometrical  figure — a  Maltese  Cross, 
perhaps,  or  an  L,  or  a  semi-circle,  and  he  will 
submit  it  to  his  friends,  and  ask  them  if  they 
don't  think  that  would  be  a  good  shape  for  a 
house.  He  will  find  that  his  friends  do  not  seem 
to  be  particularly  impressed;  and,  after  a  while, 
he,  himself,  will  begin  to  feel  that  there  is 
something  unsatisfactory  about  it;  and  that  it 
requires  an  effort  of  the  imagination  to  connect 
that  empty  outline  with  the  idea  of  a  habitable 
house.  So  he  fills  it  up  with  rooms,  pretty  much 
at  random,  and  tries  it  on  his  friends  again — 
"just  as  a  rough  idea,  you  know."  Then  hard, 
unsympathetic  persons  will  call  his  attention  to 
the  fact  that  his  front  vestibule  is  larger  than 
his  parlor,  and  that  it  is  unusual,  to  say  the 
least,  to  have  a  dining-room  that  occupies  more 
than  half  of  the  house,  and  that  is  accessible 
only  through  the  kitchen  and  butler's  pantry. 

He  begins  to  see  that  there  are  realms  of 
architectural  knowledge  which  it  behooves  him  to 
explore,  if  he  wants  to  get  people  to  look  at  his 
plans.  So  he  stops  at  the  railway  news-stand 
and  buys  a  twenty-five  cent  book  of  ready-made 
dwelling  plans.  Of  course  he  despises  the  plans ; 
not  because  they  are  despicable — as  they  cer 
tainly  are — but  because  the  book  cost  twenty- 
five  cents  and  not  one  dollar.  However,  he  ac 
quires  from  the  book  the  art  and  mystery  of 
drawing  plans;  and,  with  the  aid  of  a  foot  rule 
and  a  T-square,  he  finds  himself  able  to  turn 


224  THE  BUILDING  CRAZE 

out  a  couple  of  dozen  in  the  course  of  a  single 
evening. 

Of  course  he  doesn't  get  just  what  he  wants 
right  at  first.  He  didn't  expect  to.  Building  a 
house  is  a  serious  matter,  and  his  means  are 
limited.  By  this  time,  too,  he  has  discovered 
the  fact  that  the  size  of  his  house  must  be  fixed 
by  the  size  of  his  pile;  and  that  the  proportion 
of  one  to  the  other  is  to  be  determined  by  a 
mathematical  calculation  of  a  very  strict  and 
inflexible  sort.  This  doesn't  really  trouble  him. 
He  finds  that  for  the  money  he  has  to  spend  he 
can  get  a  house  thirty-five  feet  square.  But, 
then,  he  really  doesn't  want  anything  larger. 
All  that  he  has  to  do  is  to  utilize  the  space  at 
his  disposal  to  the  best  advantage.  So  he  sets 
to  work  and  draws  plans,  and  more  plans,  and 
other  plans,  and  different  plans  again.  By  this 
time  he  has  got  to  doing  his  work  privately  and 
keeping  it  to  himself,  so  long  as  it  is  in  the 
experimental  stages.  He  sees  other  suburbanites 
of  recent  establishment  trying  the  patience  of 
their  friends  with  plans  born  too  young;  and 
he  determines  that  he  will  make  no  such  mis 
take.  When  he  finally  settles  upon  his  plan, 
it  shall  be  one  that  is  open  to  no  criticism,  and 
that  will  be  instantly  accepted,  by  all  who  see  it, 
as  the  ideal  house  to  be  constructed  in  that 
space  for  that  amount  of  money.  And,  when  it  is 
done,  he  will  bring  it  to  me  and  exhibit  it  with 
an  aspect  in  which  defiant  pride  blends  with 
patronizing  superiority,  and  he  will  say  to  me : 


THE   BUILDING   CRAZE  225 

"There!  if  there's  anything  wrong  with  that, 
I  would  like  you  to  let  me  know  what  it  is." 

Oh,  how  well  I  know  that  plan!  It  is  neatly 
ruled  out  on  a  single  sheet  of  paper;  but  no 
single  sheet  of  paper  could  contain  all  its  glory. 
It  looks  at  first  glance  like  the  ground-map  of  a 
municipal  building  with  an  orphan  asylum  annex. 
Pinxter  sits  down  by  me  and  explains  it  all, 
pointing  out  its  beauties  with  a  lead  pencil. 

"This  is  the  front  door,"  he  says,  "and  here 
is  the  vestibule.  I've  made  that  good  and  roomy. 
I  hate  these  cramped  little  entrances,  don't  you? 
You  see,  I  have  left  space  here  for  a  hat-rack  and 
an  umbrella-stand,  and  on  the  other  side  there 
are  shelves,  and  a  little  cupboard  to  hang  coats 
in.  And  here,  you  see,  is  a  place  for  the  baby- 
carriage,  and  right  opposite  it  is  a  locker  for  my 
tennis  things.  Oh!  I've  thought  it  all  out.  Now 
we  come  into  the  hall.  I  like  a  good  big  hall, 
don't  you?  I  got  the  idea  for  this  one  from  one 
I  saw  in  the  house  of  one  of  those  Standard  Oil 
fellows  on  Long  Island  somewhere.  You  see,  I 
figured  to  get  it  big  enough  to  play  a  game  of 
badminton  in.  May  be  that's  unnecessarily  large, 
but  that's  better  than  being  all  cramped  up,  you 
know.  Now,  there's  the  dining-room.  May  be 
I  might  have  cut  that  down  a  little  bit,  but  my 
great-aunt  has  left  me  her  mahogany  dining- 
table  in  her  will,  and  that  seats  twenty-two 
people,  you  know.  Perhaps  we  shouldn't  really 
want  to  use  it,  but  I  thought  I  would  take  it 
into  consideration.  Here's  the  library:  I  haven't 


226  THE   BUILDING   CRAZE 

got  books  enough  to  fill  it  yet;  but  you  must 
think  of  the  future,  you  know.  This  is  the  draw 
ing-room,  with  three  bay-windows  opening  on 
the  garden.  Won't  that  be  nice  in  Summer? 
And  for  the  Winter  I've  designed  this  alcove 
for  an  inglenook,  with  a  great  big  old-fashioned 
fireplace;  and  a  long  settee  on  each  side  of  it. 
That  brings  us  around  to  the  kitchen;  and  there 
I've  had  to  cramp  a  little  to  keep  within  the 
bounds  of  space — but  ten  feet  by  eleven-and-a- 
half  is  quite  ample,  don't  you  think  so?  This 
little  odd  corner  here  I've  utilized  for  my  den — 
just  a  cozy,  snug  little  place,  big  enough  to  put 
a  billiard  table  in  if  I  should  want  to.  Oh!  I 
tell  you,  I've  used  up  every  inch  of  space.  And 
now  tell  me  candidly,  Sage,  do  you  think  that, 
considering  what  the  house  is  going  to  cost,  I 
really  could  get  anything  more  than  I  have  got 
out  of  those  dimensions?" 

I  tell  him  that  I  don't  see  how  he  possibly 
could;  and  he  is  so  pleased  by  my  saying  so, 
that,  in  a  burst  of  unselfish  gratitude,  he  offers 
to  leave  the  plan  with  me  over  night  to  feast  my 
eyes  on  until  I  go  to  bed,  if  I  will  solemnly 
engage  to  give  it  to  him  at  the  station  in  the 
morning. 

And,  as  his  footsteps  go  out  of  hearing  down 
the  gravel-walk,  I  take  a  pencil  and  add  up  the 
little  figures  that  freckle  his  neatly  drawn  plan 
— 7x11,  9x14 — and  so  on.  His  thirty-five  foot- 
square  house  is  72  feet  one  way  by  92y2  the 
other. 


THE   BUILDING  CRAZE  227 

Next  Winter,  when  Mrs.  Sage  and  I  go  to 
call  upon  the  Pinxters  in  their  new  house,  Pinx- 
ter  will  move  the  big  arm-chair  out  of  the  parlor 
to  make  room  for  unfolding  the  card-table,  and 
he  will  say  to  me,  in  a  casual  way:  "You  see, 
I  had  to  make  a  few  minor  alterations  in  my 
original  plan.  But  if  ever  I  build  another 
house — " 

That,  however,  is  looking  too  far  ahead.  Even 
at  the  plan-drawing  point,  Pinxter  is  only  in 
the  incipiency  of  the  disease.  There  are  several 
interesting  phases  to  record  before  Pinxter  gets 
where  he  is  able  to  talk  about  "another  house." 


MOVING    IN 

AS  I  look  out  of  my  window,  my  eyes 
tempted  from  my  work  by  the  grate 
ful  sight  of  the  Spring-time  green,  I 
see  an  imposing  and  dignified  procession  pass 
majestically,  at  a  dignified  rate  of  progress, 
along  the  highway.  It  is  a  procession  of  four 
gigantic  vans,  like  small  barns  mounted  on 
wheels.  The  vans  are  beautifully  painted  in 
the  brightest  and  shiniest  of  carriage  paint,  and 
on  their  ample  sides  they  bear  pictures  of  mighty 
warehouses — warehouses  of  the  reddest  red  brick 
imaginable,  and  of  such  vast  dimensions  that 
the  perspective  looks  too  good  to  be  true.  These 
vans  are  drawn  by  huge,  well-groomed,  hand 
somely  caparisoned  Percheron  horses.  Each  van 
carries  a  crew  of  three  or  four  sturdy-looking 
men.  There  is  an  air  of  well-to-do  respectability 
about  the  whole  outfit;  and  the  great,  tightly 
closed  doors  at  the  back  of  the  vans  give  a  sug 
gestion  of  decent  privacy  and  seclusion,  wThich 
imply  a  proper  respect  for  the  goods  and  chattels 
of  a  home  on  the  move. 

Very  presently  the  procession  will  stop  at  its 
destination,  which  is  at  a  house  where  the  sign 
"To  Let"  has  just  been  removed,  and  the  stal- 

228 


MOVING  IN  229 

wart-looking  men  will  jump  down  and  open  the 
great  doors,  and  dive  into  the  cavernous  depths 
within;  and  in  an  incredibly  short  time,  with  a 
wonderful  skill  and  precision,  they  will  shift  their 
bulky  cargo  of  trunks  and  furniture  from  van  to 
house,  depositing  every  article  according  to  direc 
tions,  and  being  so  obliging  and  pleasant  about 
it  all,  and  never  breaking  or  scratching  anything, 
that  the  delighted  owner  of  the  goods  and  chat 
tels  will  give  them  twice  as  much  beer-money 
as  he  had  intended  to.  Then  the  doors  will  be 
closed  again,  the  crews  will  mount  to  their 
perches,  and  the  imposing  procession  will  roll 
away  along  the  pleasant,  saloon-dotted  road  to 
the  great  city. 

Now,  this  is  all  as  it  should  be.  It  is  a 
proper,  orderly  and  economical  way  of  perform 
ing  a  task  whose  difficulties  and  annoyances  and 
general  cussedness  used,  once  upon  a  time,  to 
drive  strong  men  to  drink  and  desperation.  I 
am  not  the  least  inclined  to  sneer  at  the  pageant ; 
I  only  wonder,  as  I  gaze,  how  a  people  who  do 
more  moving  from  house  to  house  than  any  other 
race  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  ever  managed  to 
get  along  without  a  system  that  saves  so  much 
discomfort,  loss  of  property,  petty  annoyance 
and  humiliation — yes,  bitter,  biting,  cruel  hu 
miliation. 

I  sigh  as  I  look  back  across  the  years  and 
think  of  our  own  moving  in — or,  rather,  moving 
out — from  the  city.  Things  were  very  different 
then.  Nowadays  these  mighty  vans  roll  upon 


230  MOVING  IN 

their  errands  of  mercy  from  early  Spring  to  late 
Fall;  and  even  a  comparatively  humble  family 
may  do  its  moving  with  dignity  and  style,  on  the 
shortest  notice.  But  when  I  moved  here  the 
tortures  of  May-day  were  still  in  vogue.  The 
man  who  wanted  to  move  had  to  hire  his  truck 
man  long  before  he  hired  his  house.  Prudent 
people  generally  went  to  the  truck-stands  about 
the  Christmas  season,  calculating  on  the  genial 
influences  of  the  time  to  soften  even  a  haughty 
truckman's  stony  heart,  and  move  him  to  throw 
a  dollar  or  two  off  his  price.  People  in  whom 
the  moving  habit  was  highly  developed  used  to 
hire  their  truckman  from  year  to  year;  but  up 
in  Harlem,  where  no  one  ever  keeps  a  house  for 
two  consecutive  years,  they  used  to  sell  options 
in  truckmen. 

The  truckman  whom  I  engaged  was  a  genial, 
active,  encouraging  person  with  whom  I  drove 
my  bargain  in  January.  He  promised  to  be  on 
hand  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  on  the  first  of 
May,  and  he  offered  to  turn  up  at  four  if  I  pre 
ferred  that  hour.  I  told  him  that  I  thought  it 
was  ostentatiously  early,  and  that  six  would  do. 
He  had  four  or  five  trucks  of  a  size  that  at  that 
time  was  considered  large;  but  in  case  they 
proved  inadequate  to  the  occasion  he  promised 
to  bring  his  brother-in-law's  one-horse  wagon, 
to  which  said  one  horse  wras  attached.  He  en 
tered  my  name  and  address  in  his  engagement 
book;  and,  for  further  surety,  I  made  a  point  of 
passing  that  way  about  once  a  month  and  recall- 


MOVING  IN  231 

ing  myself  to  his  memory,  and  giving  him  one 
of  my  best  cigars. 

On  the  morning  of  the  first  of  May  we  were 
all  up  and  dressed  at  six  o'clock  and  waiting 
for  the  truckman — my  wife  and  I  and  our  whole 
domestic  staff,  and  my  wife's  eighty-two-year- 
old  uncle,  who  would  come  in  to  help  us  move, 
and  who  had  to  be  fed  all  day  with  light,  un 
breakable  articles  to  potter  around  with.  Even 
the  baby  was  with  us — at  least,  she  was  crying, 
and  I  suppose  it  was  for  the  truckman.  She 
had  cried  for  every  conceivable  thing  else  al 
ready,  and  it  didn't  seem  as  if  there  were  any 
thing  left  to  cry  for  except  the  truckman. 

Six  o'clock  came,  and  seven,  but  no  truck 
man.  We  sat  around  on  trunks  tied  up  with 
clothes-line,  and  discussed  the  chances  of  his 
having  been  bribed  to  desert  us  for  the  service 
of  some  millionaire.  We  hung  out  of  the  win 
dows  and  strained  our  eyes  to  catch  the  ap 
proach  of  the  army  of  chariots.  Scores  of  truck 
men  passed,  but  ours  came  not.  When  it  came 
to  the  point  where  my  wife  began  to  ask  me 
whether  I  was  sure  I  had  given  him  the  right 
address,  I  felt  that  the  need  of  a  temporary  ab 
sence  was  clearly  indicated,  and  I  said  I  would 
go  to  the  truck-stand  and  see  what  had  become 
of  my  man.  At  nine  o'clock  I  went.  The  truck- 
stand  was  a  long  way  off,  and  the  day  was  hot 
and  sulky.  When  I  got  there  I  was  a  perspiring 
crucible  of  pent-up  profanity.  There  was  not  a 
truck  on  the  stand.  The  policeman  told  me  that 


232  MOVING  IN 

my  man  had  left  early,  but  he  conld  not  say 
whether  he  had  gone  in  my  direction  or  not. 
He  kindly  advised  me  not  to  wait  for  him  after 
twelve  o'clock. 

I  went  back  to  the  house.  I  found  the  truck 
man  there  with  his  caravan.  He  explained  that 
I  had  given  him  the  wrong  address;  but  he 
saved  me  from  a  lasting  misunderstanding  with 
my  wife  by  adding  that  I  gave  him  the  wrong 
name.  The  truckman's  manner  had  entirely 
changed.  He  had  a  contemptuous  and  com 
manding  aspect ;  and  there  was  the  flush  of  pride 
upon  his  face.  At  least,  I  thought  at  the  time 
it  was  pride.  I  tried  to  explain  to  him  the  in 
genious  scheme  my  wife  and  I  had  devised  of  ap 
portioning  the  furniture  of  a  given  room,  or  set 
of  roomSj  to  one  particular  truck.  His  manner 
was  so  abstracted  and  absent-minded  that  by  the 
time  I  had  got  him  to  show  any  interest  at  all, 
his  men  had  distributed  the  greater  portion  of 
the  furniture  among  the  various  trucks,  on  an 
entirely  inferior  system  of  their  own.  He  then 
told  me  that  he  had  moved  more  families  than 
I  had  ever  seen,  and  requested  me  to  keep  my 
wife's  uncle  out  of  the  hall-way  unless  I  wanted 
somebody  to  let  a  feather-duster  fall  on  him  and 
kill  him. 

Most  of  the  morning  I  spent  in  keeping  the 
truckmen  away  from  a  little  back  hall  where  we 
had  stowed  away  a  lot  of  discarded  furniture  and 
household  belongings  generally,  which  we  had 
given  to  an  obliging  junk-man,  who  had  kindly 


MOVING  IN  233 

consented  to  take  them  away.  It  was  quite 
an  accumulation  of  legless  chairs,  broken-down 
kitchen  furniture  and  worn-out  bedding,  and  it 
included  a  number  of  those  atrocities  in  the 
way  of  highly  and  cheaply  decorated  furniture 
and  idiotic  objects  of  ornamental  intent  which 
find  their  way  into  every  household,  even  those 
that  really  mean  well.  Some  of  those  truckmen 
would  pass  by  an  ebony  bookcase  six  feet  long 
without  seeing  it,  and  would  hurl  themselves 
upon  that  collection,  and  try  their  best  to  carry 
away  a  wash-pitcher  without  a  handle  or  a  foot- 
rest  with  a  broken  back.  My  unresting  vigilance 
kept  the  assortment  intact  until  the  last  truck 
was  loaded;  and  then,  in  an  evil  hour,  I  turned 
my  back  for  a  few  minutes.  I  had  not  counted 
upon  the  brother-in-law  and  his  one-horse  wagon. 
He  arrived  about  this  time,  and,  finding  nothing 
else  to  make  a  load  of,  he  took  the  whole  dis 
reputable-looking  outfit  and  drove  merrily  away. 
By  this  time  everything  had  been  removed  from 
the  place;  the  servants,  with  the  exception  of 
the  nurse,  had  been  started  off  on  an  early  train 
to  our  new  suburban  home,  and  my  wife  and  I 
sat  down  to  eat  a  bit  of  luncheon — on  the  floor. 
After  luncheon  I  sat  on  the  window-sill  and 
smoked  a  pipe.  My  wife  remarked  that  she  was 
thankful  that  we  had  got  out  before  the  new 
tenants  had  begun  to  move  in. 

"We  haven't  missed  it  by  much,"  I  said; 
"for  there  are  their  trucks  in  the  street.  And 
do  you  remember,  my  dear,  my  telling  you  that 


234  MOVING   IN 

the  way  that  this  fool  of  a  landlord  was  treating 
his  tenants  would  result  in  lowering  the  charac 
ter  of  the  street?  Now  look  out  there  at  the 
furniture  of  these  people  who  are  going  to  move 
in  here.  Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  sicken- 
ingly  cheap  and  utterly  common?  Why,  it's 
hardly  one  remove  from  what  you'd  expect  to 
find  in  a  tenement  house!" 

My  wife  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"Why,  my  dear,  how  can  you?"  she  said. 

"Well,"  I  went  on,  "just  look  at  it.  Did 
you  ever  see  such  a  lot  of  cheap,  worn-out, 
poverty-ridden  stuff  to  move  into  a  nice,  smart- 
looking  house  like  this?" 

"Why,  dear,"  said  my  wife,  "that's  our  fur 
niture,  and  those  are  our  trucks.  They  were 
loaded  almost  an  hour  ago,  but  they  haven't 
started  yet,  and  I  think  the  men  are  all  in  the 
saloon  on  the  corner." 

By  the  time  I  had  hurried  the  men  out  of 
the  saloon,  and  started  the  caravan,  it  was  too 
late  to  take  the  train  by  which  we  had  meant 
to  go  out,  and  we  found  that  there  would  be  no 
other  for  three  hours.  There  was  nothing  for 
it  but  to  take  another  railroad  to  a  larger  town 
five  miles  nearer  New  York,  and  hire  a  carriage 
to  ride  the  rest  of  the  way.  We  rather  liked 
the  prospect,  however,  for  we  thought  the  ride 
would  rest  us,  and  that  baby  could  take  her  nap 
in  the  carriage.  But  we  had  taken  too  cheerful 
and  optimistic  a  view  of  the  livery-stable  accom 
modations  of  suburban  towns,  as  we  realized 


MOVING   IN  235 

when,  an  hour  later,  we  found  ourselves  jogging 
over  a  dusty  country  road  in  an  ancient  two- 
wheeled  herdic  coach,  drawn  by  a  lame  horse, 
and  driven  by  an  Irishman  who  had  more  time 
on  his  hands  than  he  knew  what  to  do  with. 

We  had  just  begun  the  ascent  of  a  hill  so 
long  that  it  seemed  to  end  nowhere  in  particular 
this  side  of  the  zenith,  when  I  heard  a  sound  of 
creaking  wrheels,  and,  looking  up,  I  saw  ahead  of 
me  a  caravan  of  heavily-laden  trucks ;  and  a  chill 
struck  to  my  heart  when  I  realized  that  the  fur 
niture  on  them  was  OUR  furniture.  It  was  no  use 
my  saying  to  myself  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
our  furniture  wras  very  good  and  comparatively 
new,  and  that  all  furniture  looks  at  its  worst  in 
the  process  of  moving.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I 
had  never  seen  such  a  wretched,  pitiful,  worn, 
scratched,  battered,  faded  and  frayed  collection 
of  cheap  and  nasty  household  articles  in  the 
whole  course  of  my  life.  That  furniture  had 
been  very  much  admired  by  our  visitors  when 
each  article  stood  on  its  proper  end,  and  was 
kept  up  to  the  highest  standard  of  domestic 
cleanliness.  But  with  its  backs  and  bottoms 
and  wrong  sides  generally  exposed  to  the  public 
gaze,  with  its  legs  sticking  up  in  the  air,  with 
the  half  of  its  castors  jolted  out,  tied  up  with 
knotted  shreds  of  rope,  with  pieces  of  worn 
counterpane  stuffed  here  and  there  to  prevent 
chafing,  and  with  a  thick  coating  of  roadside 
dust  all  over  it,  it  looked  very  much  like  the 


236  MOVING  IN 

outfit  of  an  emigrant  gang  that  had  busted  up 
in  Kansas,  and  was  coming  home  regardless  of 
appearances.  Just  as  we  drew  up  even  with  it, 
one  of  the  wagons  gave  a  lift  to  a  Polish  Jew 
peddler  with  a  bundle  of  second-hand  clothing 
tied  up  in  a  red  table-cloth.  He  stretched  him 
self  out  on  the  top  of  the  load,  on  something 
that  I  subsequently  discovered  to  be  the  baby's 
crib,  and  assumed  an  air  of  easy  proprietorship. 
I  asked  my  driver  to  whip  up,  and  he  told  me  he 
would  as  soon  as  he  got  to  the  top  of  the  hill. 
At  the  top  of  the  hill  we  came  to  the  town,  and 
drove  together  down  the  principal  residential 
street  to  my  house.  As  we  drew  up,  my  wife 
grasped  my  arm  convulsively  and  pointed  to  the 
front  lawn.  The  servants  had  not  yet  arrived 
to  open  the  house,  having  left  the  train,  with 
the  unerring  instinct  of  their  kind,  at  a  station 
several  miles  away;  and  the  brother-in-law  of 
my  truckman,  being  the  lightest  laden  of  the  mov 
ing  throng,  had  arrived  an  hour  before  anybody 
else,  had  deposited  his  entire  load  of  bric-d-brac 
on  the  front  lawn,  and  was  now  waiting  to  be 
paid. 

It  was  the  close  of  a  beautiful  May  afternoon, 
and  in  the  pleasant  twilight  a  number  of  people 
were  going  home  from  the  first  tennis  practice 
of  a  field  club  in  the  immediate  vicinity.  I  saw 
at  once  that  the  place  teemed  with  life  and 
vivacity;  and  yet  I  did  not  feel  entirely  sure 
that  I  should  not  have  preferred  something  more 
retired  and  secluded. 


A   WATER- COLOR    HOUSE 

THE  Pinxters  are  really  building.    Indeed, 
they  are  quite  a  long  way  on  in  their 
troubles.      There    is   no   more    drawing 
of  plans  on  the  back  of  envelopes:  they  are  in 
bondage   to   a  professional  architect,   and  to   a 
professional   builder   in   league   with   a   profes 
sional    stone-mason.      They    are    not    the    same 
lithe  young  things  that  they  were  a  few  months 
ago;  but  they  know  more. 

First,  Pinxter  bought  his  lot.  Then  came  a 
short  period  of  rose-colored  hope.  As  soon  as 
he  had  got  his  deed,  Pinxter  became  convinced 
that  he  had  got  the  very  best  lot  in  the  very  best 
neighborhood  of  the  very  best  town  in  the  world, 
and  he  wondered  at  his  own  acuteness  in  doing 
it.  Every  afternoon  when  he  came  home  from 
business  Mrs.  Pinxter  and  he  wandered  about 
that  lot,  feeling  their  ownership  in  the  very  soles 
of  their  feet.  They  visited  it  in  all  sorts  of 
weather;  they  brought  parties  of  friends  to  visit 
it.  Pinxter  never  allowed  any  postponement  on 
account  of  the  weather.  He  asked  everybody's 
advice  about  the  proper  location  for  the  house. 
He  and  Mrs.  Pinxter  selected  a  number  of  pos 
sible  sites  and  marked  them  out  with  stakes. 
They  let  their  friends  drive  stakes,  too.  They 

237 


238  A  WATER-COLOR  HOUSE 

got  so  many  stakes  in  the  ground  that  after  a 
while  passers  by  used  to  stop  and  wonder  what 
sort  of  a  camp-meeting  it  could  have  been  that 
was  so  free  with  its  tent-pegs. 

Then  they  had  a  great  time  deciding  upon 
an  architect;  but  when  they  did  settle  on  their 
man,  they  were  delighted  to  find  that  they  had 
made  exactly  the  right  choice.  They  found  him 
an  uncommonly  pleasant  person.  He  let  them 
tell  him  all  their  ideas — a  practice  in  which 
their  friends  had  not  encouraged  them  much  of 
late.  He  took  the  kindest  sort  of  interest  in  the 
whole  business;  and  he  suggested  all  sorts  of 
little  comforts  and  conveniences  which  need  not 
add  at  all  to  the  expense  if  they  were  put  in 
at  the  first  instance,  but  which  would  be  beyond 
the  reach  of  wealth  itself  after  the  house  was 
completed.  They  had  thought  at  one  time  of 
dispensing  with  an  architect,  and  building  the 
house  out  of  a  book ;  and  they  shuddered  as  they 
thought  that  in  that  case  they  would  never  have 
known  of  all  these  delightful  possibilities.  Then 
the  architect  brought  them  a  little  water-color 
sketch — something  he  had  dashed  off  to  give 
them  an  idea  of  what  he  thought  they  would  like. 
It  represented  a  most  charming  little  cottage, 
with  a  great  many  kinds  of  roof,  and  it  had  the 
most  alluring  dormer  windows  and  round  win 
dows  and  lattice  windows,  and  it  had  a  pretty 
little  porch  with  big  benches  at  the  side,  and 
with  a  trellis  with  vines  clambering  over  it. 
Then  there  was  a  lawn  with  flower-beds  on  it, 


A  WATER-COLOR  HOUSE  239 

and  a  neat  little  driveway  with  a  pony-phaeton 
standing  at  the  door,  presumably  waiting  for 
Mrs.  Pinxter.  Back  of  the  house  were  stately 
trees,  and  a  deep-blue  sky  hung  over  all,  with 
fleecy  white  clouds  upon  its  bosom.  A  little  more 
and  you  could  have  heard  the  birds  sing. 

Of  course  that  settled  it.  It  is  true  that 
there  were  no  trees  on  their  lot;  and  that  the 
architect  had  made  no  provision  for  drying 
clothes  anywhere  except  in  the  back  yard.  But 
from  the  moment  that  Pinxter  saw  that  picture 
their  doom  was  sealed.  Then  came  the  estimates 
and  contracts  and  specifications,  and  a  very  lucid 
and  precise  explanation  of  the  system  at  first, 
second  and  third  payments,  and  so  on.  This 
was  the  first  jarring  note  in  the  lovely  sym 
phony  of  hope. 

There  were  more  jarring  notes  later  on  when 
it  came  to  cutting  down  the  estimates  to  fit  the 
appropriation.  They  never  thought,  poor  chil 
dren,  of  cutting  down  on  the  external  beauty 
of  the  cottage  in  the  picture.  The  fancy  win 
dows,  and  the  roofs  with  their  valleys  and  peaks 
and  gables  and  angles  and  what-not,  and  the 
ornamental  porch,  all  cost  money — a  great  deal 
of  money;  and  yet  it  never  once  occurred  to 
them  that  the  one  house  that  they  best  knew 
and  best  loved  and  admired  was  the  simple, 
unpretentious  old  hip-roofed  homestead  where 
Mrs.  Pinxter 's  mother  lived,  and  where  Pinxter 
had  done  his  courting.  There  wasn't  a  fancy 
window  in  that  building,  and  a  ten-dollar  bill 


240  A  WATER-COLOR  HOUSE 

would  have  paid  for  all  the  tinsmith's  work  on 
the  roof;  but  its  simple,  well-chosen  lines  had 
a  home-like  beauty  that  had  endeared  them  to 
generation  after  generation. 

No;  the  Pinxters  made  their  architectural 
economies  out  of  the  needs  of  their  domestic 
life.  They  cut  down  a  foot  on  this  room  and 
six  inches  on  that.  They  made  their  kitchen 
range  so  small  that  their  joints  of  meat  would 
have  to  be  measured  to  fit  the  oven.  They  sub 
stituted  cast-iron  fixtures  for  brass,  and  they 
decided  on  a  cheap  grade  of  window  glass.  They 
agreed  upon  ready-made  mantels  and  single 
floors;  and  they  decided  to  go  without  a  laun 
dry,  although  they  retained  a  butler's  pantry 
that  could  not  have  been  more  commodious  had 
they  owned  an  ancestral  butler.  And  they  or 
dered  for  the  bath-room  a  tub  so  short  that 
Pinxter  could  only  sit  in  it  in  the  shape  of  a 
letter  N,  and  take  his  morning  bath  in  sections. 

Then  comes  a  hole  in  the  ground  in  the 
middle  of  the  lot;  and  then  the  masons  begin  to 
fill  this  with  a  stone  lining,  stopping  short  for  the 
day  every  time  that  an  April  shower  casts  a  two- 
minutes'  sprinkle  upon  the  earth.  Then  up  goes 
a  bewildering  lot  of  hemlock  framework  before 
Pinxter  has  a  chance  to  find  out  for  himself 
whether  it  conforms  to  the  plans  or  not. 

About  this  time  a  chill  comes  over  the  cordial 
relations  between  the  Pinxters  and  their  archi 
tect.  They  begin  to  be  disappointed  in  him. 
When  they  engaged  him  to  superintend  the  con- 


A  WATER-COLOR  HOUSE  241 

struction  of  their  house  they  fancied  him  going 
merrily  to  his  work  with  the  earliest  laborer,  and 
watching  over  everything  with  an  eagle  eye  nntil 
the  getting  sun  released  him  from  his  important 
task.  When  they  find  that  he  makes  an  inspec 
tion  about  once  a  week,  and  then  only  exchanges 
a  few  friendly  technicalities  with  the  master 
mason,  and  asks  him  how  soon  he  is  going  to 
start  that  next  job  down  the  street,  they  are 
surprised,  grieved  and  indignant. 

They  appeal  to  the  architect's  friends  to 
rouse  him  to  a  sense  of  duty,  and  to  a  realiza 
tion  of  the  great  professional  opportunity  he 
is  missing.  It  gives  them  a  certain  shock  to 
learn  that  the  architect  had  not  calculated  to 
support  himself,  his  wife  and  a  growing  family, 
for  a  whole  year  on  the  $250  that  he  is  to  make 
out  of  the  Pinxter's  job,  and  that  he  is  erecting 
houses  for  several  other  people,  and  will  erect 
more  if  he  gets  the  chance.  Later  on  they  are 
better  satisfied  with  him.  He  comes  oftener  and 
assumes  a  more  active  command  of  the  work. 
But  even  then  they  find  him  a  different  man. 
They  discover  that  very  few  of  his  brilliant  sug 
gestions  have  been  incorporated  in  the  plans  and 
specifications.  When  they  appeal  to  him  to  re 
pair  these  omissions  he  tells  them  coldly  that 
they  ought  to  have  seen  to  it  before,  and  that 
if  they  want  any  alterations  they  must  pay  for 
them  as  extras.  When  Mrs.  Pinxter  tells  him 
that  the  closet  in  her  room  is  not  large  enough, 
he  tells  her  that  it  is  larger  than  any  closet  he 


242  A  WATER-COLOR  HOUSE 

has  ever  built.  "When  Pinxter  finds  out  that  he 
cannot  put  his  Chippendale  sideboard  between 
the  dining-room  windows,  he  is  told  that  a  Chip 
pendale  sideboard  wouldn't  match  the  room, 
anyhow,  and  that  he  had  better  get  another. 
Not  room — sideboard.  It  does  not  take  the  Pinx- 
ters  long  to  learn  that  the  moving  of  a  window 
two  inches  one  way  or  the  other  will  utterly 
destroy  the  whole  artistic  scheme  of  the  archi 
tect — that  is,  after  the  contracts  are  once  signed. 
After  the  contracts  are  once  signed,  architecture 
is  always  a  delicate  and  fragile  art,  and  should 
be  dealt  with  reverently  by  people  who  cannot 
afford  extras. 

The  Pinxters  get  this  idea  firmly  impressed 
on  their  minds  when  they  make  what  is  termed 
a  "kick"  about  the  front  stairs.  They  and  their 
friends  cannot  see  that  a  newel  post  about  as 
big  as  the  capstan  of  a  man-of-war  harmonizes 
with  a  lead-pencil  rail  and  baluster.  The  archi 
tect  stakes  his  professional  reputation  that  the 
proportions  are  artistically  correct.  He  also 
refers  them  to  the  undeniable  fact  that  the 
dimensions  are  those  given  in  the  specifications, 
and  that  they  ought  to  have  objected  before 
accepting  the  latter.  It  is  of  no  use  their  saying 
that  they  didn't  know  that  the  structure  would 
look  like  that  when  it  was  done.  Neither  did 
he.  He  is  a  young  architect;  and  he  has  got  to 
practice  on  staircases  if  he  ever  wants  to  get 
them  right. 

Pinxter  is  on  his  third  payment  now,  I  be- 


A  WATEK-COLOR  HOUSE  243 

lieve;  and  I,  somehow,  feel  as  if  true  delicacy 
ought  to  keep  me  from  obtruding  my  society 
upon  him  unnecessarily.  But  I  wonder  with  a 
friendly  interest  how  he  will  come  out  of  the 
game  of  house-building  into  which  he  has  put 
his  poor  little  stakes. 

What  will  come  to  him  from  his  speculation, 
undertaken  in  almost  childish  ignorance  and  in 
experience?  Will  he  get  a  cozy,  comfortable 
little  home  that  he  will  learn  to  love  the  more 
dearly  as  the  days  go  by?  or  will  he  have  a 
poor  make-shift,  misshapen  habitation  on  his 
hands  that  will  make  him  for  years  discontented 
at  home,  and  envious  under  his  neighbor's  roof? 

Who  can  tell?  It  is  a  mere  chance  either 
way.  But  do  not  blame  poor  Pinxter  if  he 
yielded  to  a  natural  weakness  of  human  nature, 
and  let  a  pretty  picture  of  a  pretty  house  tempt 
him  to  forget  that  a  man  builds  the  inside  of 
a  home  for  himself,  and  the  outside  for  his 
neighbor  across  the  way.  How  many  of  us  are 
wiser?  Did  not  the  makers  of  fashion-plates 
long  ago  learn  to  make  the  wroman  in  their  cos 
tumes  graceful  and  beautiful,  and  the  men  stately, 
tall  and  deep-chested?  And,  shall  we  blame  the 
architect  if  he  tries  to  set  off  his  design  with 
the  attractions  of  ideal  surroundings?  No,  in 
deed!  If  your  wife  goes  shopping  to  buy  a 
Winter  wrap,  does  the  head  of  the  cloak  depart 
ment  look  among  the  saleswomen  for  one  just 
as  short  and  stout,  or  one  just  as  tall  and  angu 
lar  as  his  customer?  No,  no!  He  calls  up  a 


244  A  WATER-COLOR  HOUSE 

yonng  lady  with  a  perfect  figure  and  the  car 
riage  of  a  queen,  and  he  drapes  the  garment 
over  her  faultless  shoulders. 

It  is  human  nature  all  around,  and  that  is  why 
so  many  people  are  living  to-day  as  the  Pinxters 
will  live  until  their  house  is  finished,  in  a  water- 
color  picture  of  a  dainty  dwelling,  enshrined  in 
luxury  and  foliage,  with  a  pony  phaeton  waiting 
at  the  door,  and  with  a  front-yard  where  a  lawn 
is  ever  green  under  the  perpetual  green  skies, 
and  where,  in  trim  beds,  the  springtide  forcythia 
and  the  hardy  Fall  chrysanthemum  blossom  side 
by  side  in  innocent  and  unconscious  defiance  of 
the  laws  of  nature. 


THE    POINTERS 

ON  Summer  Saturdays  the  Suburbanite 
hastens  from  town  on  the  midday  train; 
and  Mrs.  Suburbanite  arrays  herself  in 
cool  and  dainty  garments  and  goes  out  on  the 
lawn  to  meet  him.  On  other  days  of  the  week, 
when  he  comes  home  just  in  time  for  dinner, 
she  meets  him  in  the  front  hall  and  says:  "Oh, 
is  that  you,  dear?  Hurry  up  and  get  ready 
for  dinner,  please,  for  your  train  is  late  to 
night."  But  on  Saturday  she  goes  out  on  the 
lawn  and  says:  "Oh,  darling,  I'm  so  glad  you've 
come!  I  was  so  afraid  you  wouldn't  get  the 
train."  I  don't  know  what  makes  the  difference, 
but  I  suspect  that  there  is  a  good  deal  of  swivel 
silk  and  French  hat  and  fancy  tan  shoes  about  it. 
And  pretty  soon  the  Suburbanite  gets  into  his 
Summer  bravery  of  white  flannel  and  colored 
shirt,  and,  standing  with  Mrs.  Suburbanite  on  his 
front  steps,  he  looks  up  and  down  the  pleasant 
street,  comparing  his  lawn  with  his  neighbor's. 
According  to  suburban  etiquette,  he  must  always 
praise  his  neighbor's  lawn  and  speak  slightingly 
of  his  own ;  but  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he  believes 
that  his  own  is  the  best  in  sight.  From  this 
harmless  and  gratifying  amusement  he  is  startled 
by  his  wife's  indignant  voice. 

"Oh,  Henry!"   she   cries,   "there's  a  lot   of 

245 


246  THE  POINTERS 

those  horrid  Pointers  coming  up  the  road.  They 
must  have  come  out  on  the  train  with  you." 

"Gad!"  says  Henry,  in  deep  disgust;  "look  at 
the  pair  of  them  over  the  way!" 

On  the  walk  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  street 
two  people  are  slowly  passing — a  man  and  a 
woman.  Though  their  dress  proclaims  them 
from  the  city,  they  loiter  and  gawk  like  country 
folk ;  and  they  stare  at  everything  they  see  about 
them  like  people  wandering  through  a  waxwork 
show.  The  stare  is  sufficiently  frank  and  undis 
guised  and  contemptuously  careless  enough  to 
irritate  a  hippopotamus  if  it  were  directed  at 
the  thickest  spot  on  his  hide. 

But  the  stare  is  forgotten — wiped  into  oblivion 
by  what  comes  next.  The  male  person  of  the 
pair  extends  his  arm,  points  his  forefinger 
straight  in  the  direction  of  the  modest  front 
porch  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Suburbanite,  and  de 
mands  of  his  companion: 

"There!  how  do  you  like  that  one?" 

The  female  person  gives  one  brief  glance  in 
the  direction  indicated,  and  then  replies  in  ring 
ing  tones  of  contempt: 

"I  think  it's  perfectly  hideous!  I  wouldn't 
live  in  it  if  you  gave  it  to  me.  Why,  the  little 
one  with  the  red  roof  is  better  than  that!" 

They  pass  on  down  the  street;  but  even  when 
they  have  got  as  far  as  the  corner  their  con 
versation  is  still  audible  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Subur 
banite.  The  female  person  inquires  in  loud  but 
languid  tones: 


THE  POINTERS  247 

"I  wonder  what  sort  of  people  live  in  a  town 
like  this,  anyhow?"  and  the  male  responds,  in 
clear  and  vigorous  tones: 

1 '  Oh !  pretty  devilish  common,  I  should  think. ' ' 

Is  it  really  possible  that  there  are  such  people 
in  the  civilized  world?  Oh,  yes;  there  are  plenty 
of  them,  and  they  are  not  bad  people  at  all. 
Indeed,  they  are  not,  at  home,  rude  people, 
even.  In  the  city  they  would  never  think  of 
pointing  their  forefingers  at  a  man's  front  door, 
and  commenting  upon  the  appearance  of  his 
dwelling  in  any  way  that  would  attract  his  at 
tention, — nor  do  they  mean  to  do  so  now  and 
here.  The  unfamiliar  scene,  the  novel  distances, 
the  sense  of  a  wholly  unfamiliar  mode  of  life — 
all  these  things  make  them  feel  as  though  they 
were  walking  in  a  world  in  which  they  had  no 
part,  and  they  hardly  feel  at  the  first  as  if  it 
were  just  as  real  an  every-day  life  as  their  own. 
And  then,  the  silence  of  the  country  cheats  them 
into  talking  loudly,  as  it  does  every  one. 

For  the  rest,  their  intent  is  not  at  all  offensive. 
They  are  simply  "Pointers" — a  married  couple 
of  moderate  means,  who,  having  some  idea  that 
they  may,  at  some  time,  be  obliged  to  move 
from  the  city  to  the  country,  have  come  out  to 
look  about  them  and  see  how  they  would  like  it 
on  the  whole. 

It  is  all  a  matter  of  speculative  unreality  to 
them,  and  they  no  more  think  that  they  are  seen 
and  heard  in  their  finger-pointing  and  too  frank 


248  THE  POINTEBS 

criticism  than — well,  than  you  did,  my  dear  Mr. 
Urban,  when  yon  did  pretty  mnch  the  same  thing 
in  a  university  town  in  Holland,  where  every 
second  man  on  the  street  spoke  English  quite  as 
well  as  you  did. 

The  Pointer  has  all  seasons  for  his  own.  He 
has  been  known  to  make  his  explorations  in  mid 
winter,  and  I  have  encountered  one  cheerful  soul 
who  never  went  house-hunting  in  the  country 
except  on  a  day  of  genuinely  mean  rainy  or 
snowy  weather.  He  said  that  if  you  could  see 
anything  to  like  in  a  suburban  town  under  such 
conditions,  it  must  be  a  pretty  good  town  when 
you  came  to  try  it  dry  and  comfortable.  That 
man,  I  believe,  is  still  living  in  town.  But,  of 
course,  late  Spring,  early  Summer,  and  the  first 
of  the  Fall  are  the  chosen  times  of  the  Pointer — 
especially  if  he  is  a  Pointer  of  limited  means. 
It  is  always  pleasant  to  take  an  afternoon  stroll 
through  a  pretty  country  town;  and  this  luxury 
the  Pointer  may  enjoy  at  no  greater  cost  than  the 
railway  fare  for  himself  and  his  wife.  For,  if 
they  arrive  in  the  morning,  they  generally  bring 
their  luncheon  with  them  in  a  paste-board  box, 
and  eat  it  in  the  railway  station,  to  the  great 
disgust  of  the  station  agent.  That  is,  they  do 
this  when  they  are  new  beginners  at  the  point 
ing  game — Greenpointers,  so  to  speak.  After 
ward  they  advance  in  knowledge  of  the  possi 
bilities  of  the  game.  And,  after  they  have  had 
their  first  free  ride  in  a  real  estate  agent's  car 
riage,  they  begin  to  see  that  there  is  something 


THE  POINTERS  249 

more  in  the  pastime  of  pointing  than  trailing 
aimlessly  around  on  foot  and  staring  at  the 
outside  of  other  people's  homes — or  else,  peep 
ing  furtively  into  the  dismal  interiors  of  empty 
houses.  There  are  free  rides  in  it;  cakes  and 
ale  in  it,  free,  too;  and,  more  than  this,  there 
is  consideration  and  respect  and  even  deference 
and  delicate  flattery — undeserved,  it  is  true;  un 
earned,  enjoyed  only  for  a  brief  hour,  and  then 
on  false  pretenses — but  sweet,  sweet,  sweet  on 
the  tongue  while  the  taste  lasts. 

For,  sooner  or  later,  there  comes  a  Friday 
afternoon  when  the  Pointer  climbs  to  his  airy 
flat  with  a  lightsome  step  and  a  beaming  counte 
nance. 

"My  dear,"  he  says  to  his  wife,  "we'll  go 
and  look  at  some  out-of-town  houses  to-morrow, 
but  this  time  we'll  go  in  style.  I've  struck  a 
real  estate  man  downtown,  a  man  who's  in 
terested  in  property  at  Howsonlotville,  and  he's 
going  to  take  us  out  to  see  the  place.  It  won't 
cost  us  even  our  fares;  he  puts  up  for  every 
thing,  and  when  we  get  there  he  blows  us  off 
to  luncheon  at  his  own  house,  and  in  the  after 
noon  he  drives  us  all  around,  and  shows  us  all 
there  is  to  be  seen.  Great  scheme,  isn't  it?" 

"But,  my  dear,"  timidly  remonstrates  his 
wife,  "is  it  quite  right,  do  you  think?  You  know 
we  haven't  the  least  idea  of  going  to  Howson 
lotville  to  live,  and  wouldn't  it  be,  somehow,  like 
getting  a  good  time  on  false  pretenses?" 


250  THE  POINTERS 

Then  the  Pointer  explains  to  his  wife  that 
women  don't  know  the  first  thing  about  busi 
ness.  This  is  entirely  a  matter  of  business  with 
the  real  estate  man.  He  takes  such  chances 
right  along  in  the  hope  of  getting  his  property 
known.  It  is  simply  an  advertisement  of  his 
business — nothing  else — just  the  way  the  grocer 
sends  you  a  sample  cake  of  soap  or  a  can  of 
some  new  brand  of  baking-powder.  And  in  the 
end,  of  course,  she  says  she  supposes  that  he 
knows  best. 

From  that  day  on  their  doom  is  sealed.  A 
new  era  dawns  for  them.  They  travel  out  to 
Howsonlotville  on  the  family  ticket  of  the  agent 
of  the  great  Howsonlot  estate.  They  accept  of 
the  agent's  hospitable  board,  eat  the  excellent 
luncheon  he  has  provided,  show  a  refined  ap 
preciation  of  his  good  wine;  talk  casually  and 
carelessly  of  their  rich  relations,  and  make  inci 
dental  mention  of  horses  they  have  owned.  In  the 
afternoon,  perched  high  and  proud  on  the  agent 's 
drag,  they  look  down  with  a  feeling  of  infinite 
satisfaction  upon  the  less  experienced  Pointers 
wandering  about  on  foot  and  unattended.  Then 
they  go  and  look  at  a  house  which  they  never 
in  the  world  could  afford  to  take;  and  con 
descendingly  promise  to  give  its  merits  their 
kind  consideration  over  Sunday.  This  is  not 
entirely  duplicity;  it  sometimes  takes  quite  a 
while  to  trump  up  an  insuperable  objection  to 
a  pretty  good  house. 

Once  embarked  in  this  fascinating  game,  the 


THE  POINTERS  251 

true  Pointer  never  tires  of  pitting  his  ingenuity 
and  evasive  skill  against  the  cunning  of  the 
real  estate  agent.  Of  course  the  ultimate  fate 
of  every  gambler  lies  ahead  of  him.  For  a 
longer  or  shorter  time  he  may  enjoy  free  lunch 
eons,  free  drives,  and  all  the  consideration  which 
the  real  estate  operator  keeps  on  tap  for  his 
victims  until  he  has  them  safe.  But,  be  it  soon 
or  late,  the  day  will  surely  come  when  he  is 
cornered,  when  the  compromising  word  is  said, 
when  he  sees  his  name  on  an  innocent-looking 
"memorandum  of  agreement" — and  then  it  is 
all  over  before  he  knows  it.  The  fatal  Deed  and 
the  ravenous  Bond  and  Mortgage  are  signed, 
sealed  and  delivered;  his  bridges  are  burnt  be 
hind  him,  he  stands  trembling  and  apprehensive 
at  the  beginning  of  a  new  life;  and  the  Pointer 
has  become  the  last  thing  that  he  ever  meant 
to  be — a  Suburbanite. 


THE   FURNACE 

WHEN  I  first  moved  into  the  country 
(I  have  told  this  story  before;  but 
only  in  the  comparative  privacy  of  the 
poetic  form),  I  inquired  for  a  suitable  man  to 
take  charge  of  my  furnace.  One  was  recom 
mended  to  me,  and  we  opened  negotiations, 
which  were  conducted  warily  on  both  sides;  for 
each  of  us  was  wondering  how  much  the  other 
knew  about  a  furnace,  and  each  of  us  was  con 
scious  of  plenty  of  ignorance  to  betray.  Finally, 
the  man  asked  me  how  much  time  I  wanted  him 
to  devote  to  the  furnace.  Here  I  turned  and 
rent  him.  I  told  him  that  if  he  were  applying 
for  the  post  of  furnace  tender,  he  ought  to  know 
how  much  time  it  was  his  duty  to  devote  to  that 
particular  furnace.  This  disconcerted  him,  and 
he  said  that  he  had  asked  the  question  only  be 
cause  it  had  occurred  to  him  that  I  might  want 
him  to  stay  with  the  furnace  all  day.  I  asked 
him  why  he  should  stay  with  the  furnace  all 
day,  and  he  said:  "To  prevent  its  blowing  up." 
Now,  in  my  simple  city  ignorance  I  supposed 
that  that  man  was  simply  trying  to  impose  upon 
me  and  to  get  a  profitable  job  for  himself;  but 
I  have  since  come  to  know  that  he  merely  re 
flected,  in  his  uneducated,  exaggerated  way,  the 

252 


THE   FURNACE  253 

attitude  of  all  suburbanites  toward  that  domestic 
Moloch,  the  Furnace. 

The  furnace  is,  for  eight  or  nine  months  in 
the  year,  the  heart  of  domestic  life,  and  it  may 
be  said  to  feed  the  pulse  of  all  suburban  con 
versation.  Even  the  question  of  domestic  service 
has  to  yield  to  it  in  importance,  as  a  topic;  for 
you  may,  or  you  may  not,  at  any  given  time, 
have  a  cook,  but  you  always  have  a  coal-bill. 

Now,  I  wish  to  do  all  that  lies  in  my  power 
to  reprehend  this  tendency.  It  not  only  imparts 
to  suburban  conversation  an  ashy  and  uninterest 
ing  flavor,  but  it  spoils  the  furnace.  Long  ex 
perience  has  taught  me,  and  I  do  not  hesitate  to 
affirm  it,  that  furnaces  are  just  like  children — 
you  can  spoil  them  and  set  them  all  wrong  in 
life  by  making  too  much  fuss  over  them;  by 
coddling  and  petting  them;  by  paying  attention 
to  their  little  whims  and  fancies;  and,  above  all, 
by  talking  about  them  to  their  faces  in  the  pres 
ence  of  visitors  and  strangers.  You  all  know 
how  it  is  with  children:  if  little  Claribel  is  in 
the  room,  and  you  say  to  the  lady  who  is  visit 
ing  you: 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  what  to  do!  little  Clari 
bel  is  so  sensitive!  Do  you  know,  the  other 
day  she  wept  for  five  hours  together  because 
the  cat  killed  a  little  bird  on  the  lawn!" 

Do  you  know  what  happens  after  that?  Little 
Claribel's  one  idea  is  to  beat  her  own  record 
for  sensitiveness  by  weeping  six  hours  over  the 
next  dead  bird  she  finds;  and  if  she  can't  find 


254  THE    FUENACE 

any  other  way  of  attracting  attention  and  win 
ning  praise  for  her  delicate  susceptibilities,  she 
will  drop  a  tear  on  a  deceased  tumblebug,  just 
to  attract  a  moment's  notice.  In  the  same  way, 
if  you  tell  your  visitor  in  the  youngster's  hear 
ing,  that  your  dear  little  Reginald  has  such  a 
wonderful  flow  of  spirits  that  it  seems  impossible 
for  him  to  control  himself — why,  you  must  not 
be  surprised  if  Reginald  seizes  the  opportunity 
to  kick  his  football  through  the  parlor  window, 
by  way  of  showing  the  exuberance  of  his  spirits, 
and  the  impossibility  of  restraining  them.  Well, 
you  can  spoil  a  furnace  much  in  the  same  way 
as  you  can  spoil  a  child. 

Do  not  for  an  instant  imagine  that  I  began 
my  suburban  life  with  any  superiority  of  knowl 
edge  over  my  neighbors — at  least,  so  far  as  the 
management  of  a  furnace  was  concerned.  In 
many  other  respects  I  knew  more  than  they  did 
— although  I  am  not  using  so  much  knowledge 
now.  I  treated  my  furnace  with  the  same  famil 
iar  indulgence  and  familiarity;  and  gave  it  just 
as  absurd  an  idea  of  its  own  importance  as  did 
the  most  thoughtless  of  those  about  me.  Many 
and  many  a  time  has  that  furnace  heard  me 
talking  through  the  thin  floor  that  separates  the 
cellar  from  the  ground  story — telling  of  its  wrays 
and  its  fancies;  of  its  extravagance  in  coal  one 
week,  and  of  its  strict  economy  the  next;  of  its 
entire  unwillingness  to  work  in  an  east  wind,  and 
its  furious  enthusiasm  to  roast  the  house  every 
time  there  was  a  breath  from  the  south.  Be- 


THE    FURNACE  255 

ginning  that  way,  no  wonder  I  turned  the  poor 
thing's  head. 

But  this  was  only  the  least  of  the  foolishness 
with  which  I  encouraged  that  furnace  to  mis 
behave.  I  discharged  the  man  whom  I  had  first 
engaged  to  take  care  of  it;  not  because  I  could 
find  any  real  fault  with  him,  but  because  he 
seemed  to  me  to  have  no  real  sense  of  the  seri 
ousness  of  his  responsibility.  I  thought  he 
treated  the  furnace  in  a  slighting  and  disrespect 
ful  manner;  and  I  didn't  like  the  way  that  he 
slammed  the  door  after  he  had  put  the  coal  in. 
I  hired  a  small  boy  to  sleep  in  the  house,  so  that 
he  might  be  at  the  service  of  the  furnace  day  and 
night.  I  can  say  for  the  boy  that  he  carried  out 
one  part  of  his  contract.  He  slept  in  the  house. 

It  was  I  who  went  down  late  at  night  after 
I  had  got  home  from  a  dinner  or  a  dance,  or  a 
trip  to  the  city  to  hear  the  opera,  and  dove  into 
the  cellar  to  study  the  immediate  needs  of  that 
furnace,  drowsily  summoning  to  my  aid  what 
small  scraps  of  knowledge  I  possessed  about 
draughts  and  heat-units  and  cold  air  supply — 
only  in  the  end  to  stir  up  something  or  other, 
I  didn't  know  why;  to  let  down  something,  about 
the  end  and  aim  of  which  I  knew  still  less;  and 
to  make  some  combination  of  dampers  and  slides 
and  doors,  for  which  I  never  in  the  world  could 
have  offered  the  slightest  reason. 

Of  course,  in  my  earlier  suburban  days,  I 
was  even  more  foolish  in  my  treatment  of  my 
furnace.  I  took  a  number  of  plumbers  down  to 


256  THE   FURNACE 

see  it,  and  consulted  with  them — one  at  a  time, 
of  course, — in  its  very  presence.  Each  one  laid 
out  for  me  a  different  set  of  rules  by  which  to 
work  it,  and  explained  to  me  a  different  set  of 
principles  which  governed  each  set  of  rules.  You 
could  not  have  told  them  from  so  many  doctors. 
At  first,  too,  I  showed  the  furnace  to  friends  of 
experience  and  to  distinguished  strangers  who 
occasionally  honored  my  humble  roof.  On  one 
occasion  I  took  down  a  distinguished  poet,  a 
scientist  of  wide  reputation  and  a  man  who  had 
recently  invented  a  ten-cent  puzzle;  and  this 
overdose  of  glory  and  dignity  was  quite  too 
much  for  the  furnace.  It  would  not  draw  for 
the  next  three  weeks,  and  it  gave  out  verv  little 
more  heat  than  the  refrigerator. 

The  furnace  did  not  improve  as  the  years 
went  on;  and  the  members  of  the  household 
learned  with  each  successive  twelve-month  to  rely 
more  and  more  upon  open  fires  and  upon  a 
gradual  toughening  process  that  went  on  from 
September  to  April,  and  that  made  an  indoor 
temperature  of  fifty  degrees  Fahrenheit  bear 
able,  if  not,  perhaps,  enjoyable.  Then  there 
came  a  day — a  happy  day — when  the  owner  of 
the  furnace  asserted  himself.  It  was  a  mild 
January  day  of  a  Winter  which  I  had  begun  by 
laying  in  twenty  tons  of  coal  for  the  consump 
tion  of  that  furnace.  The  boy  came  up  to  tell 
me  that  they  were  consumed.  He  was  not  the 
first  boy  who  had  made  of  his  young  energies 
a  burnt  offering  to  my  furnace ;  he  was  only  one 


THE   FURNACE  257 

in  a  long  succession.  When  I  heard  from  his 
lips  that  the  coal  was  all  gone;  and  when  I  re 
flected  that  the  chilly  annoyances  of  the  Winter 
were  to  be  succeeded  by  the  cruel  inclemencies 
of  Springtime,  I  was  bitterly  angered;  and  for 
the  iirst  time  in  my  experience  I  went  down  into 
the  cellar,  conscious  of  an  angry  and  unkind 
feeling  toward  my  furnace. 

The  boy  had  spoken  truth:  yet  not  all  the 
truth.  The  twenty  tons  of  coal  had  vanished 
from  the  bin,  and  now,  slightly  charred,  formed 
a  large  portion  of  what  was  supposed  to  be  a 
pile  of  ashes,  in  a  lonely  region  of  the  cellar. 
One  door  of  the  furnace  was  broken,  another 
had  lost  its  hinge;  and  a  huge  crack  rent  its 
fire-pot  half  way  through.  I  gave  my  orders 
sternly  and  precisely.  The  food  for  the  furnace 
was  no  longer  to  be  purchased  in  twenty-ton 
lots.  It  was  to  be  fed  from  hand  to  mouth: 
ton  by  ton  at  a  time.  No  plumber  Avas  to  heal 
its  gaping  wounds — and  I  was  never  to  hear 
one  solitary  word  about  it  until  the  Summertime 
should  come,  when  I  could  tear  it  out  and  sell 
it  for  old  iron,  and  put  some  more  modern 
device  in  its  place. 

That  was  six  years  ago,  and  all  is  changed 
since  then.  That  day  the  furnace  learned  its 
lesson:  in  bitterness  of  spirit,  I  have  no  doubt; 
but  faithfully  and  fully.  Never  since  then  have 
I  had  to  contend  with  it.  Perhaps  its  duties 
are  not  performed  in  absolute  cheerfulness  of 
mind;  but  so  long  as  it  locks  up  its  discontent 


258  THE   FUKNACE 

in  its  breast  and  locks  no  clinkers  there,  I  shall 
not  complain.  A  dull  and  sullen  servant  it  may 
be,  but  so  diligent  and  loyal  and  steady  that  I 
try  to  shut  my  eyes  to  the  fact  that  the  crack 
in  the  fire-pot  is  steadily  widening;  and  that  be 
fore  long  the  companion  of  many  days  and  nights 
of  suburban  solitude  and  solicitude  will  be  loaded 
on  a  truck,  and  will  be  borne  dangling  and  clang 
ing  away  from  its  home  to  lie  in  some  river 
side  junkyard  and  rust  itself  redder  than  it  ever 
would  fire  up  for  me. 

In  the  meantime  it  patiently  eats  and  turns 
to  good  account,  short  rations  of  coal,  grudgingly 
doled  out  to  it,  too  often  from  the  sifted  ash-heap. 


THE   TIME-TABLE   TEST 

ONCE  upon  a  time,  in  the  days  of  my 
young  and  green  suburbanity,  I  served 
on  some  society  for  the  improvement  of 
everything  in  general;  and  I  was  appointed  a 
committee  of  one  to  call  upon  the  residents 
of  a  certain  street  and  find  out  how  they  were 
disposed  toward  some  project  the  society  had  in 
hand.  I  was  appointed,  I  suppose,  because  I 
knew  hardly  any  one  in  that  particular  quarter. 
In  fact,  I  knew  but  one  man,  and  him  very 
slightly.  So,  as  I  knew  that  he  was  a  man  of 
wealth  and  reputation,  I  thought  I  would  save 
myself  trouble  by  calling  on  him  only,  and  letting 
him  voice  the  sentiment  of  his  district. 

Mr.  Banker  was  out,  but  Mrs.  Banker  re 
ceived  me  graciously,  and  even  treated  me  with 
a  certain  affability  until  I  told  her  my  mission. 
Then  her  manner  underwent  a  change.  She  said 
she  thought  Mr.  Banker  was  in  favor  of  the  proj 
ect,  but  that  she  knew  nothing  of  the  other 
people  of  whom  I  inquired.  I  said  that  I  had 
thought  Mr.  Banker  would  be  able  to  tell  me 
something  about  the  probable  attitude  of  his  next 
door  neighbor,  Mr.  Smallsales.  Mrs.  Banker  did 
not  think,  however,  that  Mr.  Banker  would  be 
likely  to  possess  any  information  as  to  the  views 
of  Mr.  Smallsales.  I  then  suggested  that  Mr. 

259 


260  THE   TIME-TABLE   TEST 

Banker  might  at  least  be  able  to  tell  me  how  Mr. 
Pettycash,  across  the  way,  might  happen  to  stand 
on  the  subject.  Mrs.  Banker  was  very  sure  that 
Mr.  Banker  could  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  I 
named  several  other  residents  of  the  neighbor 
hood,  but  in  every  case  Mrs.  Banker  was  con 
fident  that  Mr.  Banker  could  not  possibly  be 
acquainted  with  the  gentleman's  opinions.  The 
coldness  of  her  tone  increased  with  every  inquiry ; 
and  at  last  it  became  so  disapprovingly  chilly 
that  I  meekly  rose  to  retire,  wondering  wherein 
I  had  offended. 

Mrs.  Banker  saw  my  confusion,  and  she  re 
lented  sufficiently  to  afford  me  a  hint  of  enlight 
enment.  With  a  severe,  though  pitying  rebuke, 
conveyed  in  voice  and  manner,  Mrs.  Banker 
drew  herself  up  majestically  and  said,  icily 
looking  over  my  bowed  head : 

"We  have  not  had  the  pleasure  of  having  you 
long  in  the  town,  Mr.  Sage,  and  you  probably  do 
not  know  that  Mr.  Banker  never  goes  in  earlier 
than  the  10:17!" 

In  one  instant  I  recognized  the  vast  social  gap 
which  separated  the  husband  of  my  hostess  from 
poor  Smallsales  who  "went  in"  on  the  7:27. 
Blushing  for  my  obtuseness,  I  went  home  and 
resigned  from  the  society.  I  told  the  president 
that  I  thought  I  was  too  new  in  the  suburban 
field  for  active  work;  and  when  he  said  that  it 
was  only  the  new  men  who  ever  would  do  any 
active  work,  I  knew  that  I  was  right. 


THE   TIME-TABLE   TEST  261 

It  was  this  incident,  I  think,  that  first  led  me 
to  find  diversion  in  studying  the  humors  and 
humanities  of  the  Children  of  the  Time-table. 
There  is  an  upper  window  in  my  house  that 
commands  an  uninterrupted  view  of  the  little 
railway  station,  and  it  is  a  daily  pleasure  for 
me  to  stand  there  and  watch  our  little  suburban 
world  going  to  business.  We  are  all  slaves  of 
the  bell:  they  of  the  locomotive-bell,  and  I  of 
the  one  that  jingles  in  a  corner  of  the  type 
writer,  and  keeps  tab  of  the  lines  as  they  crawl 
along. 

I  have  got  so  now  that  if  I  were  to  wake 
up  out  of  a  sound  sleep,  look  out  of  that  win 
dow  and  see  so  much  as  the  back  of  a  man,  or 
even  the  top  of  his  hat — there  is  a  good  deal 
of  expression  in  hats — going  to  the  train,  I  could 
tell  you  instantly  what  train  it  is,  whether  it  is 
the  man's  regular  train  or  not — and  more  or 
less  why  he  is  taking  it. 

There  is  no  affectation  or  self-consciousness 
about  the  men  who  go  into  New  York  on  the 
very  early  trains.  Life  is  too  serious  a  matter 
to  them,  and  too  dull  a  matter;  and  it  holds 
no  bright  possibilities.  On  the  first  six  o'clock 
train  or  on  the  second  six  o'clock  train  they 
go  in;  and  on  the  first  six  o'clock  train  or  on 
the  second  six  o'clock  train  they  will  go  in  until 
the  time  comes  for  another  journey  which  will 
not  involve  their  getting  up  so  early.  Perhaps 
there  are  some  among  them  who  might  ease 
their  weary  lives  and  work  themselves  up  a 


262  THE    TIME-TABLE    TEST 

train  or  two;  but  as  this  would  involve  the 
execution  of  several  extra  licks  of  work,  I  do  not 
think  that  it  is  at  all  likely. 

It  is  the  first  train  after  seven  o'clock  that 
brings  forth  the  passenger  to  whom  the  time 
table  assumes  the  appearance  of  an  ascending 
social  scale.  He  is  only  an  office-boy  at  present. 
If  he  is  employed  by  a  very  large  commission 
house,  rating  at  Al  or  A2  in  the  books,  he  may 
be  called  a  junior  clerk;  but  even  in  that  case 
his  duties  are  the  same,  and  his  pay  is  likely 
to  be  less.  His  companions  on  his  townward 
trip  all  occupy  similar  positions,  and  he  knows 
them  all  and  greets  them  with  airy  familiarity. 
They  skylark  noisily  on  the  platform,  and  be 
have  just  as  much  like  college  boys  as  they  dare 
to.  They  have  to  put  some  restraint  upon  them 
selves,  however,  for  the  neighboring  commuters 
are  jealous  of  their  rest.  And,  while  they  are 
accustomed  to  stand  a  great  deal  of  noise  from 
locomotives,  they  naturally  draw  the  line  at 
boys. 

The  7:03  train  is  a  pleasant  sight  to  watch, 
as  it  begins  to  puff  on  its  way,  for  even  if  the 
boys  do  show  off  a  little  they  are  genuinely 
happy  and  full  of  the  joy  of  life;  and  I  like 
to  see  them  scramble  up  the  steps  like  young 
monkeys.  But  the  7:27  train  is  quite  another 
affair. 

The  errand-boy  has  got  his  promotion.  He 
is  really  a  junior  clerk  of  some  sort;  and  he 
has  the  glorious  privilege  of  getting  to  his 


THE   TIME-TABLE   TEST  263 

office  exactly  twenty-four  minutes  later.  But, 
with  his  first  step  upward,  he  leaves  light-hearted 
boyishness  behind  him  and  becomes  a  prey  to 
cankering  ambition.  His  companions  are  men 
now,  but  mostly  men  who  have  barely  escaped 
the  bondage  of  the  6 :38,  and  in  whose  breast  the 
hope  of  ever  rising  even  to  the  8:01  is  slowly 
dying  out.  There  is  no  companionship  among 
them,  for  they  all  hate  the  doubtful  limbo  in 
which  they  are  placed;  and  those  who  may  get 
out  of  it  despise  those  who  never  may,  while 
the  latter  hate  the  former  with  all  the  cordiality 
of  a  healthy  human  envy.  It  needs  only  a 
glance  to  tell  a  7:27  man.  He  appears  long 
before  train  time,  and  he  hurries  along  and 
casts  furtive  glances  up  and  down  the  street, 
fearful  that  some  8:01  man  may  be  ostenta 
tiously  loafing  around  his  garden,  flaunting  to 
the  world  his  thirty-four  minutes  of  superiority. 
And  yet  the  8:01  man — that  is,  the  regular 
every-day  8:01  man — is  not  a  happy  creature. 
It  is  true  he  puts  a  bolder  face  on  as  he  goes 
to  the  station,  and  assumes  a  jauntier  carriage. 
He  cultivates  an  air  of  being  extremely  fond 
of  early  rising ;  and  he  sniffs  the  morning  breeze 
with  such  an  affectation  of  enjoyment  that  he 
sometimes  awakens  late  sleepers  under  whose 
windows  he  may  chance  to  pass.  But  his  arro 
gant  pretenses  desert  him  when  he  gets  to  the 
station.  There  you  see  him  glance  nervously 
about,  anxiously  seeking  for  some  8:48  man 
who  has  been  forced  by  an  exceptional  emer- 


264  THE   TIME-TABLE    TEST 

gency  to  take  an  earlier  train.  Him  he  will 
pursue  and  catch,  and  fasten  on  him  with  the 
grip  of  death;  and  he  will  not  be  shaken  off. 
The  8:48  man  has  business  on  his  mind;  he 
has  got  up  three-quarters  of  an  hour  before  his 
usual  time — and  every  morning  minute  counts 
with  the  suburban  commuter — and  he  is  sleepy 
and  cross,  and  his  breakfast  is  sitting  crosswise 
on  his  stomach.  But  the  8:01  man  will  stick 
by  him,  and  walk  up  and  down  the  platform 
with  him,  and  nod  loftily  to  his  regular  com 
panions,  as  though  he,  too,  were  one  of  the 
favored  children  of  fortune  who  usually  took 
the  train  of  the  day. 

For,  of  course,  the  8:48  is  the  train  of  the 
day.  WE  take  it— the  WE  that  is  WE  in 
every  suburban  town — oh!  too  often  most  tire- 
somely  WE,  and  most  unkindly  nobody  else. 
The  passing  of  the  8:48  train  is  decidedly  a 
social  function.  The  men  approach  it  by  twos 
and  threes,  never  hurrying,  but  with  an  air  of 
elegant  leisure  that  may  have  taken  ten  or  fifteen 
minutes  in  preparation.  They  are  all  spick  and 
span  in  their  clothes:  for  a  commuter's  clothes 
improve  from  train  to  train  until  he  gets  to 
taking  the  10:17,  when  he  is  reputed  so  rich 
that  he  may  safely  dress  shabbily.  There  is 
always  a  crowd  at  this  train,  and  many  ladies 
take  it  who  could  much  more  conveniently  go 
in  later.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  tipping  of 
hats  and  shaking  of  hands  in  the  latest  imported 
style;  and,  altogether,  you  would  think  that  the 


THE   TIME-TABLE   TEST  265 

people  assembled  on  the  little  platform  had  come 
together  to  go  to  a  meeting  of  the  Fourhundred 
Hunt,  instead  of  going  to  New  York  to  make 
money  downtown  or  spend  it  uptown — and  no 
great  money  at  either  end. 


I  saw  a  perfectly  happy  man  the  other  day. 
It  was  my  friend  Pettycash.  For  many  years, 
Summer  and  Winter,  he  has  served  the  7:27 
train  faithfully  and  unfailingly.  The  other  day 
he  came  into  his  old  aunt's  money,  and  he 
promptly  resigned  his  clerkship.  He  told  his 
wife  that  for  a  few  days  before  he  entered  on 
the  management  of  the  estate  he  would  stay 
at  home,  and  they  would  have  a  splendid  time 
together,  looking  over  the  garden  and  figuring 
out  what  the  house  needed  in  improvements. 
But  on  the  very  first  day  of  his  freedom  he 
surprised  and  disappointed  her  immediately 
after  breakfast  by  telling  her  that  he  had  for 
gotten  something  in  town  which  he  ought  to 
attend  to,  and  that  he  positively  must  go  in.  He 
tried  to  placate  her  by  offering  to  do  an  errand 
for  her;  but  I  think  that  only  aroused  unjust 
suspicions  in  her  mind.  She  need  not  have  been 
troubled,  however.  He  only  wanted  to  take  the 
10:17  train,  and  he  took  it.  I  happened  to  be 
at  the  station,  where  the  train  was  delayed  for 
a  few  minutes,  and  I  saw  him  roaming  uneasily 
from  car  to  car,  although  it  has  been  his  in 
variable  custom  to  travel  in  the  smoker.  But 


266  THE    TIME-TABLE    TEST 

when  I  saw  him  at  last  settle  himself  in  the 
forward  car,  just  in  front  of  the  great  Mr. 
Banker,  and  begin,  with  an  air  of  indolent  ease, 
to  read  an  illustrated  paper,  I  knew  just  how 
he  felt. 


THE    SOCIETY   CHURCH 

"^\   T"ERY  pleasant  people,  I  have  no  doubt, 

\/     my  dear.     In  fact,  I  have  heard  that 

T       Mrs.  Chasuble  met  them  and  thought 

them  very  agreeable,  indeed.    But  I  really  don't 

know  anything  about  them,  myself.    They  don't 

belong  to  our  church,  you  know!" 

Do  not  imagine,  my  startled  friend,  that  good 
Mrs.  Burrage  is  speaking  in  an  un-Christian 
spirit  when  she  answers  thus  a  newcomer's 
question  about  some  resident  of  older  date. 
There  is  not  a  hint  of  un-Christian  spirit  in 
Mrs.  Burrage.  She  has  the  highest  respect  for 
the  people  of  whom  she  speaks;  her  manner  is 
most  cordial  to  them  when  she  meets  them  here, 
and  I  am  sure  it  will  be  even  more  cordial  when 
she  meets  them  in  heaven  after  the  burden  of 
her  social  responsibilities  shall  have  rolled  off 
her  much-tried  suburban  back.  In  speaking  as 
she  does,  she  is  simply  asserting  the  right  of 
her  own  beloved  church  to  call  itself  the  Society 
Church  of  the  town.  She  and  other  earnest 
workers  have  won  for  it  that  distinction;  not 
by  zealous  religious  effort — for  she  knows  no 
more  of  the  doctrines  of  her  church  than  she 
knows  of  the  doctrines  of  Confucius — but  simply 
by  good,  solid,  indefatigable  financiering. 

What  has  she  not  done — what  has  she  not 

267 


268  THE    SOCIETY   CHURCH 

gone  through,  to  attain  that  much-desired  end? 
She  has  wrung  gold  out  of  rocks,  silver  out  of 
stone,  and  nickel  and  copper  out  of  the  very 
pebbles  and  dust.  She  has  coaxed  and  cajoled 
and  wheedled  well-to-do  home-seekers  into  set 
tling  in  our  town;  and  she  has  lured  their  wives 
and  daughters  from  other  folds  by  an  extrava 
gance  in  the  way  of  social  entertainment  which 
has  driven  Burrage  almost  to  the  verge  of  dis 
traction.  He  told  me  that  he  completely  wrore 
out  one  dress  suit  while  Mrs.  Burrage  was  get 
ting  the  church-spire  built;  and  that  he  worked 
a  hole  in  his  new  trousers  over  a  series  of 
dinners  which  she  gave  to  rope-in  some  people 
who  hadn't  subscribed  to  the  font. 

For  the  rock  on  which  the  suburban  Society 
Church  rests  is,  I  am  afraid,  a  rock  of  gold- 
bearing  quartz  that  has  little  likeness  to  the 
rock  on  which  Peter  founded  Ms  church.  I  do 
not  mean  to  say,  or  even  to  hint,  that  the 
church,  as  a  church,  is  not  all  that  a  church 
should  be  in  the  way  of  disinterested  and  de 
voted  spirituality.  I  should  not  presume  to 
bear  testimony  upon  such  a  point.  I  am  only 
speaking  of  the  church  as  the  dominant  social 
organization  of  the  town,  to  point  out  that  it 
attained  that  proud  position — or,  as  the  vulgar 
say,  "got  there" — because  its  congregation  had 
the  most  money  and  the  best  workers. 

The  opposition  church — we  have  a  number 
of  churches  in  our  town,  but  only  two  of  what 
you  might  call  the  first  magnitude — thought  it 


THE    SOCIETY    CHURCH  269 

had  done  a  very  clever  thing  when  it  got  its 
corner-stone  laid;  covered  up  with  a  neat  little 
wooden  box,  and  left  to  await  the  growth  of  a 
building  fund  to  visible  proportions.  Little  the 
congregation  of  that  church  knew  Mrs.  Burrage. 
She  laid  her  corner-stone  later,  it  is  true,  but  in 
it  she  put  attested  copies  of  all  the  builders' 
contracts,  and  of  the  guarantees  of  fifteen  well- 
to-do  citizens  to  pay  for  the  construction  of  the 
edifice  up  to  the  roof-line.  It  may  have  been 
this  move;  or  it  may  have  been  her  chartering 
a  freight-train,  decorating  it  with  flowers  and 
green  things,  and  running  a  church-fair  on 
wheels  the  whole  length  of  our  section  of  the 
railroad — but  one  way  or  another  victory  perched 
on  her  banners.  People  said  that  the  freight-car 
church-fair  was  undignified  and  even  irreverent; 
but  it  was  a  glittering  success;  and,  in  the  end, 
there  was  the  beautiful  little  brown-stone  church 
to  show  for  it,  on  the  best  corner  lot  in  the 
best  quarter  of  the  place.  And  when  the  new 
comer  in  town  looked  around  him  and  saw  that 
church  and  the  other  churches,  and  the  weather- 
beaten  box,  rain-streaked  and  gray,  that  shel 
tered  the  corner-stone  of  the  opposition  church, 
it  is  small  wonder  that  he  (or  his  wife)  promptly 
exchanged  the  religious  convictions  of  his  (or 
her)  ancestors  for  the  social  convictions  of  Mrs. 
Burrage. 

I  have  not  told  you  what  particular  church 
it  is  for  which  Mrs.  Burrage  has  struggled  so 
hard;  but  I  may  say  that  in  most  suburban 


270  THE    SOCIETY    CHURCH 

towns  the  struggle  is  apt  to  lie  between  the 
Episcopalians  and  the  Presbyterians.  The  Pres 
byterians  have  the  most  money  and  the  Episco 
palians  have  the  most  skill.  I  suppose  that  all 
the  churches  are  equally  capitalized  in  respect 
to  Christianity;  but  when  it  comes  to  cash  capi 
tal,  these  two  denominations  loom  up  like  light 
houses.  The  Methodist  Church  is  rich  in  spots, 
and  the  Congregational  Church  of  New  England 
has  a  few  well-provisioned  outposts;  but  if  you 
want  to  see  a  real  good,  lively  tussle  for  the 
possession  of  the  top  place  in  a  new  town,  you 
want  to  see  an  Episcopal  congregation  and  a 
Presbyterian  congregation  tackle  each  other  for 
blood. 

The  struggle  is  rarely  a  long  one.  The  first 
stone  church  up  gets  the  prize.  There  is  no 
gainsaying  that  sure  and  certain  proof  of  certain 
financial  superiority.  It  is  the  Stonechurchites 
henceforward  who  will  build  the  finest  club 
house,  organize  the  largest  entertainments,  and 
set  the  social  key  for  the  whole  town — deciding 
whether  the  majority  shall  go  in  for  athletics 
or  for  intellectuals;  for  the  higher  culture  or 
for  fashionable  frivolity.  If  the  Presbyterians 
get  the  inside  track,  the  town  is  sure  to  get  the 
higher  culture,  and  will  probably  come  in  for 
athletics;  but  it  doesn't  stand  a  ghost  of  a  show 
for  frivolity.  If  the  Episcopalians  get  there, 
the  fashionable  frivolity  and  the  athletics  (of  a 
mild  sort)  are  quite  safe;  but  there  is  absolutely 
no  chance  for  the  intellectualities  of  the  higher 


THE    SOCIETY    CHURCH  271 

culture:  the  idea  of  an  Episcopalian's  needing 
to  know  any  more  than  he  naturally  does  know 
being  too  preposterous  to  consider. 

Let  me  say  here  that  although  my  range  of 
observation  has  covered,  by-and-large,  a  dozen 
small  towns  of  this  country-side,  I  have  never 
seen  one  instance  where  defeat,  in  a  fight  of 
this  sort,  was  not  accepted  loyally  and  bravely. 
If  the  Presbyterians  are  conquered,  they  simply 
screw  the  armor  of  sanctity  a  little  tighter,  and 
move  among  their  neighbors  as  stern  old  Puri 
tans  might  have  moved  amid  Papists  and  mum 
mers  in  the  days  of  the  second  Charles.  If  the 
Episcopalians  lose  the  game,  they  simply  smile 
a  pitying  smile  of  amused  tolerance,  and  the 
vestryman's  wife  says  to  her  guests: 

1  'Oh,  no,  my  dear!  you  mustn't  expect  any 
thing  in  the  way  of  gayety  here,  you  know. 
This  is  the  very  stronghold  of  Presbyterianism ; 
and  we  poor  idolators  are  quite  looked  down 
upon.  There  are  only  enough  of  us,  you  know, 
for  two  or  three  tables  at  whist,  and  I'm  afraid 
that  our  good  neighbors  think  we  are  very 
shocking  people." 

Yet  it  must  be  very  hard.  Of  course  every 
body  discounts  the  fact  that  nine  out  of  ten  of 
the  newcomers  in  town  will  have  neither  religion 
nor  politics  until  they  find  out  which  is  the 
fashionable  church,  and  which  is  the  party  with 
the  normal  majority.  But  it  must  be  trying  to 
the  Shepherd  when  his  best  ewe  lambs  begin 
to  stray  from  the  fold. 


272  THE    SOCIETY   CHURCH 

Here  is  the  case  of  Mrs.  Chedby,  for  instance. 
Her  pastor  met  her  on  the  street  the  other  day, 
and  remarked: 

"I  have  not  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you 
lately,  Mrs.  Chedby."  (In  church  understood.) 

"No,"  says  Mrs.  Chedby,  a  little  pinkish,  but 
with  the  air  of  one  who  has  prepared  herself 
for  the  fray:  "you  see,  Mr.  Chedby 's  mother  is 
visiting  us,  and  she's  such  an  ardent  Stone- 
churcharian,  you  know,  and  counts  so  much 
upon  never  missing  a  service;  and  being  nearly 
eighty,  you  know,  I  really  had  to  go  with  her. 
And  I'm  sure,  much  as  it  is  that  I  miss  there, 
it's  been  a  great  comfort  to  me  to  be  a  help 
to  the  old  lady,  finding  her  places  in  the  prayer- 
book.  It  came  quite  easy  to  me,  of  course,  for 
my  mother  was  an  Episcopalian,  you  know." 

Yes,  he  knows;  the  poor  pastor  knows.  And 
he  knows  that  her  father  was  a  hard-shell  Bap 
tist;  and  he  knows  that  if  she  were  to  go  to 
Paris  to-morrow  her  grandparents  would  turn 
out  to  have  been  Roman  Catholics.  And  he 
knows  that  she  is  slipping — slipping — slipping 
away  from  him. 

A  little  before  the  end  of  dear  Mama's  visit, 
Mrs.  Chedby  "gets  at"  Mr.  Chedby  to  induce 
him  to  go  to  church  once  in  a  while — just  for 
the  look  of  it.  That  question  having  been  set 
tled  for  ten  years  or  so,  Mr.  Chedby  does  not 
understand  her  at  all.  Then  he  thinks  she  wants 
more  money.  When  he  finds  she  doesn't,  he 
becomes  a  little  worried  about  her  health,  and 


THE   SOCIETY   CHURCH  273 

privately  asks  the  doctor  if  women  ever  get 
" nutty"  from  going  to  church  too  much.  Finally 
he  begins  to  dimly  perceive  that  she  has  some 
object  in  view  which  she  means  to  keep  to  her 
self.  He  waxes  wroth.  He  lays  back  his  ears 
and  stubbornly  refuses.  She  pleads  with  him 
for  his  mother's  sake. 

"You  know,  my  dear,  she  hasn't  said  one 
word  about  it  since  she's  been  here,  though  I'm 
sure  it's  a  grief  to  her,  you're  not  going.  Your 
father  always  did,  you  know.  Now,  if  you'd 
only  go  once,  just  once,  to  please  her,  and  I 
promise  you  I  won't  ask  you  another  time.  You 
know,  dear,  you  may  never  see  her  again." 

Finally  Chedby  compromises  to  the  extent 
of  one  solitary  service,  and  Mrs.  Chedby  reminds 
him  of  his  promise  the  moment  he  opens  his 
eyes  on  the  beautiful  Sabbath  morn.  It  is  well 
she  does,  for  it  is  no  trifling  job  to  get  Chedby 
off  to  church.  In  the  first  place,  he  is  a  man 
who  spends  most  of  his  waking  hours  in  a  cheviot 
shirt,  for  he  is  an  electrical  engineer  of  renown, 
and  he  is  the  superintendent  for  this  region  of 
some  great  company  that  is  scarring  this  fair 
country  with  trolleys  and  power-houses,  and  all 
manner  of  evil  inventions;  and  most  of  Chedby 's 
time  is  spent  in  driving  furiously  hither  and 
thither  in  a  sulky  with  a  bottom  like  a  big  yellow 
soap-dish. 

He  swears  profusely  as  he  struggles  with  his 
collars  and  cuffs,  alone  in  his  little  dressing- 
room.  Mrs.  Chedby,  in  the  next  room,  hears 


274  THE    SOCIETY    CHURCH 

him;  but  she  rebukes  him  only  with  a  gentle 
"Hush!"  He  swears  still  more  every  time  that 
he  looks  out  of  his  dressing-room  window,  and 
his  eye  lights  on  his  little  workshop  in  the  gar 
den,  where  for  so  many  years  he  has  spent  his 
Sunday  mornings,  peacefully  tinkering  away  at 
his  inventions  and  improvements  and  contrap 
tions  generally;  for  Chedby  is  a  mechanical  ge 
nius  on  his  own  hook — I  wish  he  would  make 
himself  a  lawn-roller. 

However,  he  has  got  ready  at  last,  and  is 
steered  into  the  church-going  throng  on  the 
highway,  red  in  the  face,  and  suffering  much 
in  the  region  of  the  collar.  He  gets  redder 
yet  as  he  hears  low  whistles  of  surprise  and 
incredulity  from  passing  golfers  and  bicyclers; 
but  with  his  eyes  firmly  fixed  upon  the  prayer- 
book,  which  he  grasps  with  perspiring  fingers, 
he  marches  on  behind  his  womenfolk.  At  church 
he  gets  along  pretty  well  through  the  service; 
although  Mrs.  Chedby  has  to  take  his  silk  hat 
away  from  him  two  or  three  times,  because  he 
will  play  a  tattoo  on  the  crown.  In  the  first 
of  the  sermon  he  fidgets,  then  he  calms  down 
into  a  state  of  absolute  abstraction,  and  Mrs. 
Chedby  knows  by  his  drumming  on  his  knees 
with  his  finger  tips  and  puckering  his  lips  as 
if  he  were  going  to  whistle,  that  he  is  deep  in 
mathematical  calculations.  In  fancied  security 
the  good  lady  folds  her  arms  and  begins  to 
study  Episcopalian  styles  in  sermon-hearing  at 
titudes.  The  clergyman  draws  the  main  argu- 


THE    SOCIETY   CHURCH  275 

ment  of  his  discourse  to  an  end  with  one  of 
those  sweeping,  triumphant  questions  which  are 
only  asked  because  there  isn't  any  answer  to 
them;  and  Mr.  Chedby,  dimly  conscious  in  his 
mathematical  depths  of  an  interrogative  pause, 
gives  a  loud,  absent-minded  snort  of  assent.  A 
little  titter  titters  around;  Mrs.  Chedby  flushes 
crimson,  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Lilymouth  turns  the 
pinkest  he  can,  and  reads  the  rest  of  his  ser 
mon  as  if  it  were  an  auctioneer's  catalogue. 

But  Chedby  has  served  his  turn.  The  paths 
of  the  two  congregations  cross  each  other  ^  and 
Mrs.  Chedby  takes  good  care  that  her  old  pastor 
shall  see  her  turn-out. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  will  say  to  him  later,  when 
he  makes  his  hopeless  remonstrance;  "I  got  jinto 
the  habit  of  going  when  Mr.  Chedby 's  mother 
was  here,  and  Mr.  Chedby  showed  so  much  in 
terest  in  going  to  his  old  church  again;  and  I 
knew  he  wouldn't  go  by  himself;  and  as  the 
children  are  to  be  brought  up  in  that  faith, 
anyway,  and  as  both  Mr.  Chedby  and  his  mother 
felt  so  strongly  about  it,  it  didn't  seem  to  me 
as  though  I  ought  to  consider  myself.  And  of 
course  it  would  have  been  different,  in  a  way, 
if  dear  Mama  hadn't  been  a  Church-of-England 
woman ! ' ' 

And  when  he  hears  the  "dear  Mama"  and 
the  "Church-of-England  woman"  the  poor  Shep 
herd  knows  that  the  brand  of  the  other  flock 
is  on  his  ewe  lamb. 


THE    SUBURBANITE   AND 
HIS    GOLF 

ONE  day  last  Summer,  Mygatt  called  on 
me  at  about  five  o'clock  in  the  after 
noon.  I  saw  from  the  evening  paper 
in  his  hand  that  he  had  just  come  from  the 
train;  and  I  wondered  a  little  at  this,  for  he  is 
a  regular  man  in  his  goings  and  comings,  and 
my  house  is  well  out  of  his  way.  With  an  air 
that  was  at  once  mysterious  and  diffident,  he 
asked  if  he  might  look  at  my  encyclopedia.  I 
took  him  to  the  library  and  asked  him  what 
volume  he  wanted.  He  seemed  uncertain  about 
it,  and  something  in  his  manner  suggested  to 
me  that  he  wanted  to  be  left  alone.  I  strolled 
out  upon  the  verandah,  and  I  had  not  sat  there 
long  before  Hix  came  in  at  the  gate.  He,  too, 
wanted  to  look  at  my  encyclopedia.  I  was  about 
to  tell  him  that  Mygatt  was  at  that  moment 
looking  at  it,  when,  glancing  over  my  shoulder, 
I  saw  that  the  library  was  empty,  and  that  one 
of  the  volumes  was  missing  from  the  big  leather- 
bound  set.  Mygatt  must  have  slipped  out  of 
my  own  back  door  of  retreat,  and  I  could  not 
but  infer  that  he  had  his  own  wishes  for  having 
his  errand  kept  private.  I  told  Hix  I  would 

276 


THE  SUBURBANITE  AND  HIS  GOLF  277 

go  with  him  to  the  library  as  soon  as  my  smoke 
was  finished,  and  I  got  him  to  sit  down  by  me 
on  the  side  farthest  from  the  door,  and  smoke 
until  Mygatt  should  have  had  a  chance  to  cover 
his  retreat.  In  the  meantime  I  asked  Hix  if  I 
could  be  of  any  service  to  him  in  his  researches. 
At  first  he  didn't  think  I  could,  and  then  he 
hemmed,  hawed,  and  finally  blurted  out: 

"Why,  it's  this  way,  Sage:  I  want  to  look  up 
something  about  an  English  game  that  they 
call  golf  or  goff,  or  something  like  that;  and  I 
guess  I'll  have  to  get  you  to  help  me,  for  I'm 
hanged  if  I  know  how  to  spell  the  blamed  thing." 

"Oh!"  said  I,  much  relieved;  "is  that  what 
you  want?"  A  hasty  glance  showed  me  that 
Mygatt  was  gone,  and  his  volume  was  back  in 
the  book-case.  I  led  my  guest  to  the  old  red 
cherry  book-case  in  the  hall,  that  enshrines  the 
sporting  library  of  the  family  for  several  gen 
erations — a  curious  collection  that  ranged  from 
Izaak  "Walton,  by  way  of  Mr.  Sponge's  Sporting 
Tour,  to  the  Baseball  Guide  of  the  current  year. 
Here  I  hunted  up  two  or  three  recent  works  on 
golf  which  I  had  to  read  in  boning  up  for  a 
Quarterly  article  on  "The  Specific  Moral  Influ 
ence  of  Certain  Assorted  and  Selected  Forms 
of  Physical  Exercise;"  and  I  was  just  simple 
enough  to  give  him  a  condensed  account  of  what 
I  had  boned  up.  I  thought  Hix  looked  a  little 
frightened  at  the  books;  but  he  took  the  thin 
nest  one  of  them  and  departed,  thanking  me 
more  warmly  than  seemed  necessary.  As  I  went 


278  THE  SUBURBANITE  AND  HIS  GOLF 

back  into  the  library,  I  could  not  help  noticing 
that  Mygatt  had  not  put  his  volume  back  prop 
erly.  I  pulled  it  out,  and  the  book  split  itself 
open  at  the  pages  headed — 

GOLDSMITH  GOMEE 

GOLF  GOMPHIASIS 

It  did  not  require  any  great  sagacity  to  put 
the  one  two  and  the  other  two  together;  but  I 
felt  pretty  sure  of  my  guess,  when,  late  the  next 
night,  just  as  I  was  closing  my  book  to  go  to 
bed,  a  man  who  had  not  crossed  my  threshold 
for  two  years  slipped  stealthily  in  on  me  and 
said: 

"Oh,  Sage,  they  tell  me  you're  a  great  au 
thority  on  the  new  game  they  call  garf.  Would 
you  mind  telling  me  something  about  it?  Pretty 
much  the  same  thing  as  shinny,  isn't  it!" 


I  was  away  from  home  for  a  few  weeks  in 
the  latter  part  of  the  Summer.  The  first  night 
that  I  got  home  Hix  and  Mygatt  came  to  see 
me.  It  was  the  hottest  September  night,  I  think, 
that  I  ever  remember;  but  those  two  dear  sim 
ians  wore  heavy  tweed  suits,  hand-me-down  cloth 
caps  that  fell  over  their  noses,  and  golf  stockings 
an  inch  thick,  with  a  diamond  pattern  on  them, 
in  a  ghastly  orange  that  somehow  suggested  a 
dish  of  fried  eggs  gone  astray. 

They  told  me  that  they  wanted  me  to  play 
golf;  that  it  was  the  greatest  game  on  earth; 


THE  SUBURBANITE  AND  HIS  GOLF  279 

and  that  I  did  not  want  to  lose  an  hour  in 
making  myself  acquainted  with  its  mysteries. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Mygatt,  "you  think  it's 
something  like  shinny.  Most  people  do.  But 
it's  not,  in  the  least.  You  see,  it's  this  way — " 

"Hold  on!"  interrupted  Hix;  "you  let  me 
explain  to  him.  I've  shown  so  many  people 
I've  kind  of  got  the  hang  of  it.  Maybe  he's 
heard  something  about  it,  anyway.  You've  heard 
of  the  game,  haven't  you,  Sage?  G-O-L-F — You 
must  have  seen  something  about  it  in  the  pa 
pers." 

"My  dear,"  inquired  Mrs.  Sage,  when  I  had 
toiled  upstairs  that  night,  an  hour  or  two  later, 
"what  on  earth  were  those  men  talking  to  you 
about  all  this  while?" 

"Golf,"  I  said,  wearily. 

"What!"  cried  Mrs.  Sage,  indignantly;  "not 
that  ridiculous  game  that  they've  been  trying 
to  get  us  to  play  all  this  time  up  at  Seacaddie?" 

"I  am  afraid,  my  dear,"  I  said,  "it  is  the 
very  same." 


Now,  I  am  not  going  to  say  anything  against 
golf;  and  I  do  not  doubt  that  to  the  unfortu 
nates  of  Lenox  and  Tuxedo,  idle  and  incapable 
of  intellectual  enjoyments,  it  must  be,  indeed,  a 
precious  boon.  But  to  the  plain  suburbanite  of 
modest  means  it  is  nowhere  in  interest  to  the 
game  the  conductor  plays  making  holes  in  his 
commutation  ticket. 


280  THE  SUBURBANITE  AND  HIS  GOLF 

I  think  that  perhaps  the  golf  enthusiasts  might 
have  made  better  progress  in  their  great  mis 
sion,  had  they  not  too  early  in  the  day  let  out 
the  fact  that  there  is  more  golf  played  off  the 
grounds  than  on  them — in  fact,  that  it  is  a  great 
ferry-boat  and  station-platform  game. 

In  the  beginning,  Hix  and  Mygatt  and  the 
rest  of  them  took  turns  at  carrying  broken  golf 
clubs  into  the  city,  and  expatiating  on  the  deli 
cate  points  of  the  instrument. 

"Best  mashie  I  ever  had,"  one  announces, 
as  if  he  had  been  brought  up  with  mashies.  "I 
got  it  the  day  I  got  that  craigenputtoch  and  that 
gloomer — you  know,  Hix?" 

"Little  bit  like  my  stymie-boddle,  isn't  it?" 
inquires  Hix. 

"No,"  says  Mygatt,  judicially;  "I  think  you 
will  find  it  has  a  little  more  whoof  on  the  wimsie 
side — just  a  thirty-second  of  an  inch,  maybe; 
but  that's  what  does  it." 

And  they  all  agree  that  that  is  what  does  it; 
and  they  tell  stories  about  strikes  they  have 
made  and  they  haven't  made,  so  long,  and  so 
specific,  and  so  utterly  pointless  and  uninter 
esting  that  they  would  turn  a  trout-fisher  green 
with  envy. 

An  indiscreet  excess  of  this  sort  of  thing  led 
to  a  chilly,  suspicious  feeling  about  golf  in  the 
more  active  athletic  circles  of  our  town.  Mem 
bers  of  the  baseball  team  went  down  to  the  golf- 
links,  watched  the  proceedings  for  a  half -hour  or 
so,  and  then  demanded: 


THE  SUBUEBANITE  AND  HIS  GOLF  281 

"Say,  when  are  you  fellows  going  to  quit  prac 
tice  and  call  the  game?" 

This  treatment  so  irritated  the  golfites  that 
they  worked  themselves  into  a  sort  of  religious 
fury  of  enthusiasm.  They  ravaged  the  town  for 
converts.  Men,  women  and  children  were  torn 
from  happy  homes  and  forced  to  swing  deformed 
war-clubs  in  the  air,  and  to  pound  the  inoffensive 
earth.  Brasseys  and  craigenputtochs  were  thrust 
into  the  trembling  hands  of  age,  and  even  inno 
cent  childhood  was  not  exempt.  The  church 
itself  was  invoked  to  exert  its  powerful  influence ; 
and  the  Rector  obligingly  went  around  saying  to 
recalcitrants:  "What!  not  play  golf?  I  thought 
everybody  did!"  It  must  have  looked  that  way 
to  him  Sunday  mornings — for  the  Church  of 
England,  you  know,  golfs  on  Sunday  with  per 
fect  propriety. 

But  somehow  all  this  was  of  no  avail.  The 
game  enjoyed  a  sort  of  hectic  prosperity  during 
the  latter  days  of  Fall,  when  there  was  very 
little  else  to  be  done  out-of-doors;  but  the  snow 
buried  it  for  the  Winter;  and  when  it  was 
brought  forth  again  in  the  Spring,  only  a  hand 
ful  of  sneezing  devotees  gathered  in  the  cause. 
The  practice  games  for  the  tennis  openings 
diminished  even  this  number ;  and  when  the  base 
ball  season  opened,  the  first  swing  of  the  bat 
knocked  golf  galley-west. 


When  the  crusade  was  at  its  hottest,  I  was 


282  THE  SUBUEBANITE  AND  HIS  GOLF 

dragooned,  against  my  natural  instincts,  into 
buying  a  pair  of  crazy-quilt  stockings  an  inch 
thick,  and  a  couple  of  crooked  sticks  with  fool 
names  to  them.  The  stockings  were  a  good  in 
vestment,  as  I  find  on  chilly  days;  but  I  never 
knew  what  to  do  with  the  sticks  until  Mygatt, 
who  had  made  me  buy  them,  moved  into  my 
neighborhood.  Then  I  painted  red  spots  on 
them,  fixed  them  up  with  leather  ears  and  bris 
tling  manes,  which  I  had  made  out  of  an  old 
hair  brush,  and  gave  them  to  my  two  youngest 
children  for  hobby-horses.  Mygatt  has  to  pass 
my  door  twice  a  day,  and  every  time  I  see  him 
watching  those  children  with  eyes  of  horror, 
and  shuddering  at  the  desecration,  I  feel  that 
those  sticks  are  earning  an  honest  penny  for 
the  first  time  in  their  crooked  lives. 


THE    SUBURBAN    DOG 

THERE  is  a  small,  sweet  patch  of  silence 
that  comes  over  the  suburban  night 
just  as  it  is  turning  into  morning.  There 
is  no  other  really  silent  period  in  all  the  stretch 
between  bed-time  and  get-up  time.  A  man  never 
realizes  with  what  a  variety  of  animal  life  he 
is  surrounded,  until  he  lies  awake  one  Summer 
night  in  the  suburbs.  It  will  be  borne  in  upon 
him,  in  the  course  of  that  experience,  that  be 
tween  the  moo  of  the  calfless  cow  and  the  buzz 
of  the  sleepless  mosquito,  there  is  as  large  a 
choice  in  nocturnal  noises  as  the  most  exacting 
could  demand. 

But,  for  this  little  space,  there  comes  a  silence 
so  profound  that  it  occasionally  wakes  me  up. 
It  did  the  other  day,  and  I  did  not  try  to  go 
to  sleep  at  once,  but  lay  still  for  a  while,  drink 
ing  in  the  charm  of  it. 

The  stillness  was  perfect.  Even  the  little 
birds  in  the  vines  had  let  up  on  their  sawfiling 
lullabies;  and  there  was  not  enough  wind  to 
move  the  leaves  in  the  tree-tops.  For  ten  min 
utes  the  spell  lasted,  and  then,  far,  far  away, 
in  a  distant  street,  I  heard  the  opening  and 
shutting  of  a  house-door,  and  my  ear  faintly 
caught  the  sound  of  a  heavy,  regular  foot-fall 
on  the  hard  macadam. 

283 


284  THE    SUBURBAN   DOG 

4 '  Ruh-ruh-ruh-ruh-ruh ! ' ' 

It  was  only  the  engineer  at  the  mill,  going 
to  his  daily  work,  and  I  knew  it,  and  the  dogs 
knew  it;  but  it  made  no  difference  to  the  dogs. 

1  '  Ruh-ruh-ruh-ruh-ruh ! ' ' 

It  might  have  been  a  college  yell,  but  it  wasn  't ; 
it  was  the  real  thing.  Somebody's  dog  had 
seized  the  chance  to  be  smart.  Then  another  one 
answers  him — a  querulous  little  kiyi,  who  goes: 

"Rih-rih-rih-rih-rih!" 

Then  a  big  hound  comes  in  with  a  heavy  bay — 

' '  Roo-roo-roo-roo-roo ! ' ' 

Then  a  lady-dog  somewhere  comes  in  with  a 
hysterical  yelp,  telling  the  world  that  her  nerves 
are  all  unstrung,  and  that  it  gave  her  a  terrible 
start  to  be  waked  up  so  suddenly,  and  what  is 
the  matter,  anyway?  Then  there  is  a  vague 
dog,  who  must  live  somewhere  where  he  is  not 
in  the  habit  of  seeing  things;  and  he  barks  in 
a  doubtful,  inquiring  way,  as  if  he  had  done  a 
good  deal  of  barking  in  the  course  of  his  life, 
and  had  never  seen  any  particular  good  come 
of  it.  Then  there  is  a  peculiarly  offensive  dog 
who  yaps  so  shrilly  and  persistently  and  pene 
tratingly  that  I  know  he  cannot  be  much  over 
six  inches  long,  and  the  kind  of  dog  that  would 
run  away  from  a  rubber-doll. 

One  by  one  they  all  come  in.  Under  my  win 
dow  two  familiar  dog-voices  break  forth — the 
bass  of  my  big  dog  and  the  treble  of  my  little 
one.  On  sweeps  the  chorus  in  every  key  and 
cadence;  and  I  know  that  the  spreading  ripple 


THE    SUBURBAN   DOG  285 

of  melody  will  not  die  out  until  it  has  reached 
the  confines  of  the  town.  It  does  not  last  long 
—five  minutes,  perhaps — and  then  it  subsides  all 
of  a  sudden.  One  low  cur,  who  must  have  jack 
ass  blood  in  him,  tries  to  get  up  an  encore,  but 
it  doesn't  go. 

A  nuisance?  Well,  perhaps.  But  it  is  a  nui 
sance  that  goes  with  the  dogs;  and,  so  far  as 
I  can  judge,  from  the  volume  and  extent  of  that 
chorus,  it  has  not  deterred  one  single  person 
in  town  from  keeping  dogs.  But  it  is  totally 
unnecessary.  "Why  do  they  do  it1? 

Purely  as  a  matter  of  sentiment.  That  is 
their  way  of  reminding  us  that  they  still  cling 
to  the  old  title  of  service  by  which  they  earned 
the  right  to  share  men's  homes,  and  to  be  the 
companions  of  men.  The  barking  simply  says: 

"Here  we  are,  you  see;  not  wanted  at  present, 
but  just  as  ready  to  warn  you  of  danger  and 
to  fight  for  you  as  the  best  of  our  forefathers. 
We  know  that  it  is  all  right  just  now;  we  don't 
even  get  up  to  bark;  we  just  lie  here  and  wag 
our  fat  tails,  but  we're  here — oh!  we're  here!" 

Very  foolish,  you  think.  Well,  perhaps  so; 
but  there  are  four  or  five  old  gentlemen  right 
here  in  this  State  of  New  Jersey  who  meet  once 
every  year  in  a  remote  town  in  the  woods,  and 
go  through  certain  legal  formalities  to  assure  the 
myriad  house-owners  of  the  State  that  they,  the 
old  gentlemen,  are  still  the  Proprietors  of  New 
Jersey — which  they  are,  indeed,  by  right  of  suc 
cession,  although  the  original  grant  has  dwindled 


286  THE    SUBURBAN   DOG 

to  a  few  pine-barrens.  Now,  either  there  is  a 
good  deal  of  human  nature  about  a  dog,  or — 
we  will  let  it  go  at  that. 


I  suppose  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  sub 
urban  dog  is,  as  a  rule,  a  job  lot.  His  owner, 
of  course,  affects  to  see  signs  of  blood  and  lin 
eage  about  him;  but  his  owner's  neighbors  call 
him  a  mongrel  cur,  and  as  his  past  is  generally 
hazy,  perhaps  the  neighbors  size  him  up  rightly. 
Once  in  a  while  you  find  an  inexperienced  sub 
urbanite  who  is  rash  enough  to  pay  good  money 
for  a  real  canine  aristocrat,  but  he  never  repeats 
the  experiment.  To  keep  the  noble  beast  from 
contaminating  associations  with  the  lower  orders, 
he  has  to  be  cooped  up  in  a  cage  or  pen,  and 
taken  out  to  walk  at  the  end  of  a  leash.  Under 
this  treatment  the  animal  pines,  and  becomes  a 
burdensome  object  of  compassion.  Veterinaries, 
amateur  and  professional,  work  over  him  with 
no  better  effect  than  to  increase  his  depression 
of  spirits.  Finally  he  takes  hold  of  the  case 
himself,  breaks  out  of  the  cage  one  fine  night, 
and  is  not  seen  again  for  a  couple  of  weeks, 
when  he  returns  home  with  every  sign  of  having 
led  a  highly  disreputable  life.  His  escapade 
cannot  be  concealed  from  a  censorious  world. 
In  fact,  complaints  of  his  uninvited  visits  come 
from  dog-owners  near  and  far,  and  in  the  end, 
he  is  given  to  the  farmer  who  makes  the  most 
fuss  over  his  claim  for  damages. 


THE    SUBURBAN   DOG  287 

But  in  the  case  of  the  average  dog,  he  is  either 
given,  or  he  gives  himself.  Some  dogs  lead  a 
varied  and  unsettled  life,  involving  a  constant 
repetition  of  both  processes.  A.  moves  to  town 
and  gives  his  setter  pup  to  B.  Setter  pup 
doesn't  like  B.,  and  goes  and  inflicts  himself 
upon  C.  C.  won't  have  it,  and  passes  the  dog 
over  to  D.  The  dog  runs  away  every  chance 
he  can  get,  and  goes  back  to  C.  That  makes  D. 
mad,  and  he  tells  C.  to  take  his  wretched  pup 
back.  C.  goes  to  E.  and  labors  hard  with  him 
to  take  the  dog.  E.  finally  consents,  and  then  it 
is  discovered  that  the  dog  has  established  him 
self  in  the  household  of  F.,  from  whence  he 
will  probably  be  ejected  as  soon  as  he  exposes 
the  objectionable  ways  that  he  has  picked  up 
in  the  course  of  his  many  changes  of  ownership. 

But  whatever  may  be  the  ultimate  fate  of  this 
dog,  he  will  for  the  rest  of  his  days  carry 
around  his  affections,  not  in  a  solid  chunk,  but 
cut  up  into  sections,  like  a  closely  divided  pie. 
From  A.  to  F. — or  to  Z.,  if  he  lasts  long  enough 
— he  will  feel  that  he  has  a  dropping-in  acquaint 
ance  at  every  house;  and  not  one  of  all  the 
people  through  whose  hands  he  has  passed  will 
ever  get  wholly  rid  of  him,  except  C.,  who, 
having  had  more  trouble  than  anybody  else  with 
the  animal,  may  have  found  some  clear  and 
comprehensible  method  of  expressing  his  feel 
ings  on  the  subject. 

I  feel  somewhat  conscience-stricken  for  having 
given  this  instance  to  the  world,  as  I  look  out 


288  THE   SUBURBAN   DOG 

of  my  window  and  see  the  flock  of  innocent, 
harmless  and  wholly  unobjectionable  dogs  repos 
ing  on  my  lawn  and  the  neighborhood  lawns — 
it  is  the  very  hottest  of  the  day,  and  they  are 
quiet  for  a  while.  There  are  red  and  black  set 
ters,  and  calico  setters,  and  fox-terriers,  and 
bull-terriers,  and  Scotch  terriers,  and  Newfound 
lands,  and  skyes,  and  bassett-hounds,  and  mas 
tiffs,  and  every  kind  and  variety  of  dog,  down 
to  the  plain  yellow,  or  common  dog  dog.  There 
is  not  a  pedigree  among  the  whole  lot  of  them; 
few  have  any  beauty,  and  the  usefulness  of  the 
best  of  them  is  a  doubtful  quantity.  True,  they 
bark  at  night,  but  they  bark  as  sensationally  at 
the  squirrel  in  the  tree  as  they  do  at  the  lurking 
burglar;  and  they  might  bark  their  heads  off 
before  any  of  us  got  up  to  bother  with  them. 
They  certainly  do  accompany  the  baby-carriages 
on  their  rounds,  with  an  air  of  proud,  protecting 
importance,  which  nothing  in  the  world  ever 
attains  to,  except  an  officer  in  a  militia  regiment ; 
and  there  is  a  widespread  belief  that  if  a  tramp 
attempted  to  raid  a  baby  carriage,  the  largest  of 
the  attendant  dogs  would  eat  him  up.  This  must, 
however,  be  always  a  problem  of  the  future,  for 
tramps  who  are  collecting  babies  are  scarce  in 
these  parts. 

Perhaps  they  are  not  valuable  or  beautiful  or 
useful — our  dogs — but  we  keep  the  most  of 
them  for  plain,  honest  love  of  them.  They  play 
gently  with  the  children;  they  submit  to  awk 
ward,  childish  caresses  that  hurt  them;  even  the 


THE    SUBURBAN   DOG  289 

great,  big,  short-haired  St.  Bernard  puts  his 
policeman 's-club  of  a  tail  between  his  legs  and 
shrinks  meekly  away  when  the  baby  prods  him 
with  a  sharp  stick.  When,  having  been  away, 
we  come  home,  they  are  the  first  to  meet  us, 
wagging  their  honest  tails,  reaching  us  far  ahead 
of  the  children,  and  yet  patiently  waiting  for 
their  meagre  word  and  caress  of  recognition 
until  the  young  ones  have  been  fully  greeted. 

How  could  we  spare  them — our  dogs — for  are 
they  not  part  and  parcel  of  the  suburban  house 
hold?  When  the  Master  of  the  House  comes 
home  at  evening,  and  looking  up  the  roadway 
from  afar  off,  sees  the  big  yellow  tail  and  the 
little  brown  tail  wagging  cheerfully  as  he  heaves 
in  sight,  he  knows  that  all  has  gone  well  with  the 
home  company,  and  that  he  need  not  fear  that 
change  or  sickness  has  come  to  pass  in  his  ab 
sence  ;  for,  had  it  been  otherwise,  the  dogs  would 
have  known  it,  with  their  wonderful  and  mys 
terious  dog  knowledge,  and  they  would  have 
hid  themselves  from  his  sight  at  the  time  of  his 
home-coming,  instead  of  going  out  into  the  road 
to  wag  their  honest  mongrel  tails,  and  tell  him 
that  all  was  well  with  those  he  loved. 


THE   NEWCOMERS 

THE  other  evening  my  wife  reminded  me 
that  I  had  promised  to  lend  a  road  map 
to  a  man  who  had  recently  moved  into 
town  from  New  York.  This  surprised  me  some 
what,  for  I  did  not  remember  that  I  had  ever 
made  such  a  promise.  But  when  I  found  out 
that  my  wife  had  promised  for  me,  I  realized 
that  it  was  a  much  more  binding  engagement 
than  any  I  could  have  made,  because  it  was  one 
that  I  should  not  be  allowed  to  forget.  So  I 
laid  down  my  pipe  and  book,  found  the  road- 
map,  and  strolled  out  into  the  night  alone;  for 
Mrs.  Newcomer  had  not  yet  returned  Mrs.  Sage 's 
call,  and  my  visit  was  to  have  no  standing  in 
social  law — to  be  a  thing  existent,  but  unrec 
ognized,  like  a  drink  between  drinks,  or  a  Phila 
delphia  alley. 

In  a  spirit  of  informality,  I  put  on  my  oldest 
slouch  hat  and  walked  leisurely  and  luxuriously 
through  the  mellow  August  evening.  I  say 
"luxuriously"  advisably;  for  I  had  not  walked 
a  hundred  yards  before  I  realized  that  I  was 
enjoying  one  of  the  best  luxuries  that  our  gen 
erous  but  somewhat  confused  climate  has  to 
give  us.  The  stars  made  a  faint  light  in  the 
brooding  skies;  and  the  darkened  earth  was 

290 


THE   NEWCOMERS  291 

peaceful  and  silent  with  a  temperate  air,  neither 
hot  nor  cool ;  and  a  pleasant  green  smell  to  it. 

Ahead  of  me  the  gray  macadam  road  stretched 
dimly  on  till  it  lost  itself  in  a  vista  of  arching 
trees.  I  was  surprised  that  I  seemed  to  have 
it  all  to  myself.  Perhaps  it  was  too  early  in 
the  evening,  and  my  fellow-townsmen  preferred 
the  charms  of  nicotine  to  those  of  nature.  I 
smiled  a  smile  of  kindly  contempt  for  their  pref 
erence,  as  I  lit  a  cigar,  which  I  happened  to 
find  in  my  pocket. 

I  soon  perceived,  however,  that  the  night 
was  not  attractive  to  me  alone.  Away  off  in 
the  distant  woods,  I  heard  the  performance  of 
a  nocturnal  tragi-comedy,  familiar  enough  at  this 
season  of  the  year.  It  had  only  three  acts,  or 
rather,  three  sounds.  The  Owl  said: 

"Whoo-oo!"  the  gun  said  "Pop!";  and  then 
the  boy  with  the  gun  made  an  unspellable  noise 
that  expressed  surprise  and  delight — for  he  had 
hit  the  owl. 

This  little  episode  brought  out  another  evi 
dence  of  human  companionship.  Away  up  the 
road  the  pale  macadam  suddenly  turned  white 
where  a  small  but  brilliant  disk  of  light  was 
projected  upon  it.  Then  the  light  dashed  around 
and  lit  up ,  the  tree-trunks  and  the  underbrush. 
Then,  after  an  interval,  in  which  I  could  not 
hear  a  sound,  except  the  insect  noises  of  the 
night,  it  appeared  on  the  other  side  of  the  road, 
and  apparently  nearer  to  me.  I  stood  stock-still 
and  watched  the  peculiar  antics  of  the  light.  It 


292  THE    NEWCOMERS 

went  backward  and  forward  in  an  uncertain  sort 
of  way,  not  as  if  its  bearer  were  looking  for 
anything,  but  more  as  if  he  were  trying  to  find 
his  way  out  of  a  thicket  or  a  marsh.  But  there 
were  no  thicket0  or  marshes  on  the  broad  level 
road,  and  even  the  underbrush  in  the  vacant  lots 
was  sparse  and  low.  Besides,  the  light  was 
sometimes  full  on,  sometimes  shut  off  to  a  tiny 
crescent,  and  sometimes  hidden  altogether. 
Moreover,  the  night  was  so  clear  that  if  it 
had  not  been  for  the  blackness  that  enshrouded 
whatever  was  in  back  of  the  glare,  I  should 
have  been  able  to  see  the  figure  of  the  lantern. 

I  quickened  my  pace;  but  at  the  first  sound 
of  my  feet  on  the  hard  road  the  light  began  to 
dance  backward  and  forward  like  a  will-o'-the- 
wisp  in  a  fit;  and  when  I  got  to  the  corner  of 
the  road  that  turned  down  to  the  Newcomers' 
house  and  shouted  "  hello !"  after  it,  it  took 
itself  out  of  sight  up  the  road,  with  such  speed 
that  I  had  no  temptation  to  follow  it. 

When  I  came  in  front  of  the  Newcomers'  house 
I  stopped  in  astonishment,  and  mechanically 
pulled  my  watch  from  my  pocket  and  lit  a  match 
to  see  the  time.  It  was  fifteen  minutes  past 
eight,  but  not  one  light  peeped  from  the  closed 
shutters  of  the  comfortable  old-fashioned  cottage. 
A  hundred  yards  on  either  side  lights  glowed 
in  the  neighbors'  windows;  but  not  so  much  as 
a  glimmer  of  a  night-lamp  in  a  bed-room  broke 
the  blackness  of  the  Newcomers'  house. 

I  knew  they  were  all  at  home,  for  Mrs.  New- 


THE   NEWCOMERS  293 

comer  had  told  my  wife  they  would  be ;  so,  after 
some  hesitation,  I  concluded  to  try  a  ring  at  the 
bell.  I  think  I  found  the  idea  that  they  might 
be  asleep  somewhat  galling  to  my  spirit.  It  was 
showing  too  frank  and  unaffected  a  contempt 
for  the  charms  of  suburban  life,  and  I  resented 
it.  I  pushed  the  button  in  the  door-post,  and 
heard  a  response  from  the  distant  kitchen,  too 
loud  and  clear  to  escape  the  notice  of  any  wak 
ing  person.  Then  I  heard  a  scratching  sound 
above  my  head,  and,  stepping  back  off  the  porch, 
I  saw  the  blinds  of  a  front  window  pushed  out 
about  an  inch  and  a  half;  and  by  the  faint  light 
that  appeared  at  the  chink  I  judged  that  some 
one  was  holding  a  candle  far  back  in  the  bed-room 
hall.  Then  a  woman's  voice,  husky  and  tremu 
lous,  but  still  to  be  recognized  as  Mrs.  New 
comers',  whispered  with  intense  agitation: 

"Oh!  what  is  it? — Who  is  it? — Please  go  away! 
— We  don't  want  anything! — I'll  wake  my  hus 
band! — Mr.  Newcomer  will  see  you  in  the  morn 
ing! — We've  all  gone  to  bed! — Oh,  dear!" 

This  exclamation  was  caused  by  the  action  of 
a  gust  of  wind  which  blew  one  leaf  of  the  blind 
out  of  the  lady's  hand  and  revealed  that  Mrs. 
Newcomer  was  anything  but  accurate  in  her 
statements,  for  she  wore  a  very  pretty  and  rather 
elaborate  dress,  and,  as  the  blind  swung  back, 
a  piece  of  fancy  work  fell  at  my  feet. 

I  established  my  identity  and  stated  my  errand, 
and  was  welcomed  with  an  effusiveness  such  as 
no  stranger  had  ever  greeted  me  with  before. 


294  THE    NEWCOMERS 

The  maid  in  the  hallway,  devoutly  thanking  the 
saints,  as  if  my  coming  had  saved  the  house  from 
an  attack  of  Apache  Indians,  produced  a  lamp, 
and  the  two  females  descended  the  stairs  and 
were  joined  in  the  hallway  by  some  more  of  the 
domestic  staff.  The  process  of  letting  me  in 
was  a  long  one.  Bolt  after  bolt  was  withdrawn, 
key  after  key  was  turned.  I  knew  the  old  house 
in  its  former  tenant's  time,  and  remembered  that 
an  iron  lock  with  a  brass  key  was  its  only  equip 
ment.  The  mighty  armament  was  evidently  new; 
but  at  last  the  door  was  pulled  open,  or,  rather, 
pulled  and  pushed,  for  it  stuck  so  tight  in  the 
frame  that  I  had  to  put  my  shoulder  to  it  before 
it  would  yield.  As  it  went  back  a  gust  of  chok 
ingly  warm  air  rushed  out  into  my  face;  and 
it  did  not  take  me  long  to  discover  that  every 
window  in  the  house,  from  cellar  to  garret,  was 
shut  tight,  although  several  large  lamps  were 
going  at  full  blaze  in  the  kitchen  and  library, 
where  blankets  had  been  hung  up  at  the  windows 
to  keep  the  light  in. 

Mrs.  Newcomer,  with  beads  of  perspiration 
standing  on  her  forehead,  cordially  invited  me 
in,  but  I  told  her  I  had  not  come  to  stay,  and 
had  only  meant  to  leave  my  map  at  the  door,  as 
I  had  another  pressing  engagement.  This,  how 
ever,  she  would  not  hear  of ;  and  she  so  earnestly 
begged  me  to  remain,  at  least,  until  Mr.  New 
comer  returned  from  the  Doctor's,  that  I  had  to 
consent.  Fortunately,  in  my  utter  astonishment, 
I  had  forgot  to  dispose  of  my  cigar,  and  Mrs. 


THE   NEWCOMERS  295 

Newcomer,  observing  this,  suggested  that  I 
should  smoke  on  the  porch  while  she  sat  near 
the  doorway.  She  admitted  that  it  was  rather 
close  in  the  house,  but  said  of  course  she  didn't 
dare  to  have  anything  open  when  Mr.  Newcomer 
was  not  within  doors.  So  I  sat  outside  and 
smoked,  my  hostess  sat  within  the  door  and 
talked,  and  from  the  servants  in  the  kitchen  I 
could  hear  fervent  ascriptions  of  thankfulness  for 
the  presence  of  the  "good  jontlemin." 

"I  feel  quite  ashamed  of  myself  for  making 
you  stay  with  me,  Mr.  Sage,"  began  the  lady; 
"but  I  know  you  wouldn't  mind — if  you  knew  how 
nervous  we  all  are — over  these  dreadful  nights 
in  the  country.  I  suppose  you've  got  used  to 
them — you  must  have,  because  you've  lived  here 
so  long, — but  I  should  think  it  must  have  required 
a  great  deal  of  courage.  And  how  you  get 
around  at  night,  I  don't  see.  Why,  you  haven't 
even  got  a  cane,  Mr.  Sage !  Last  night  we  counted 
five  electric  lights  that  were  out,  and  to-night 
they've  only  just  lit  them  up;  and  poor  Mr. 
Newcomer  has  to  go  to  the  doctor's  in  all 
this  dreadful  darkness!  We  couldn't  remember 
whether  the  baby  had  to  have  his  pills  first  and 
the  powders  afterward,  or  the  other  way.  And 
Henry — that  is,  Mr.  Newcomer,  is  so  very  near 
sighted  that  he 's  just  as  likely  to  run  into  a  tramp 
as  not — and,  anyway,  they  tell  me  that  the  night 
air  is  full  of  malaria  germs,  and  that  you  never 
should  sleep  with  your  windows  open.  You  don't 
think  anything  could  have  happened  to  Henry, 


296  THE   NEWCOMERS 

do  you,  Mr.  Sage?  I  am  sure  I  expected  him 
back  by  this  time.  If  you'll  excuse  me  a  minute 
I'll  go  up  to  the  corner  room  and  look  down  the 
road  through  the  opera  glass.  Oh!  you  don't 
know  what  a  relief  it  is  to  have  you  here." 

Henry — I  mean  Mr.  Newcomer — arrived  at 
last,  and  although  he  hailed  me  cordially  when 
his  wife  told  him  who  I  was,  I  noticed  that  he 
slipped  hastily  past  me,  and  went  with  his  wife 
into  a  little  reception  room  just  behind  my  back. 
Perhaps  he  supposed  that  I  would  think  he  was 
delivering  an  important  medical  message  to  his 
wife ;  but  I  could  not  have  thought  that,  for  from 
where  I  sat  I  saw  him  take  off  a  light  overcoat, 
unwind  a  silk  muffler  from  his  neck,  and  disem 
barrass  himself  of  a  heavy  stick,  a  tiny  22-calibre 
revolver,  and  a  dark-lantern. 

At  Mr.  Newcomer's  earnest  request,  I  braved 
the  trying  atmosphere  of  the  house  and  drank  a 
glass  of  tepid  beer  with  him.  It  was  a  costly 
glass  of  beer  for  Newcomer.  As  I  stepped  over 
his  door-sill  to  go  home  I  felt  the  boards  of  the 
porch  settle  under  my  feet  with  a  drop  of  an  inch 
and  a  half. 

* '  B-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r 
r-r-r!!!" 

The  loudest  electric  bell  that  I  ever  heard  was 
going  off  with  frightful  rapidity  and  violent 
persistence.  It  was  hardly  necessary  for  Mrs. 
Newcomer  to  explain  that  she  had  set  the  new 
burglar-alarm,  and  had  forgotten  to  warn  me ;  and 
I  realized  her  feelings  when  Newcomer  admitted 


THE   NEWCOMERS  297 

that  he  knew  everything  about  that  bell,  except 
how  to  stop  it.  Meanwhile  the  bell  continued  to 
perform  its  functions.  Newcomer  asked  me  if  I 
knew  anything  about  electricity.  I  was  glad  and 
proud  to  say  that  nobody  in  the  world  knew  so 
little  about  electricity  as  I  did.  I  went  home, 
leaving  Newcomer  doing  something  in  a  vague 
way  with  a  screw-driver.  I  strolled  slowly  home 
and  sat  on  my  porch.  An  hour  or  so  later,  my 
wife  asked  me  what  that  faint  tinkling  was  that 
she  had  heard  for  so  long.  I  told  her,  and  she 
seemed  mildly  amused. 


But  the  next  day  she  lured  me  down  to  a  dis 
used  tool-house,  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  where 
lay  an  accumulation  of  old  junk,  with  the  rust 
of  many  years  upon  it.  There  was  not  much 
left  of  it,  and  I  had  quite  forgotten  all  about  it, 
but  I  could  not  help  recognizing  some  coils  of 
insulated  wire,  several  gong-bells,  two  or  three 
patent  window  fastenings,  and  a  dark-lantern. 


THE    FIRST   OF    IT 

THE  question  that  his  old  friends  of  the 
city  oftenest  ask  of  the  suburbanite  in 
the  course  of  his  first  year  is  this: 

"Do  you  really  like  it,  living  out  there?" 

To  this,  if  he  is  unwise — it  being  assumed  that 
he  cannot  help  being  a  little  bit  snobbish — he 
will  reply  that  he  despises  suburban  life;  that 
he  only  takes  to  it  for  the  sake  of  the  children, 
and  that  it  is  merely  a  temporary  expedient  in 
the  interests  of  sanitary  science.  For  this  little 
indiscretion  he  will  pay  dearly  later  on,  when  he 
buys  his  house  and  settles  down.  But  if  he  is 
wise  he  will  say  Yes — and  say  it  in  very  large 
letters,  too,  and  feign  an  appropriate  enthusiasm. 

Yet,  if  you  ask  me  whether  there  ever  was  an 
indurated  resident  of  a  metropolitan  city  who 
really  enjoyed  his  first  year  of  suburban  house 
keeping,  I  should  have  to  tell  you  that  I  do  not 
believe  it  could  be  truly  said  of  any  man  of  the 
sort. 

How  could  he  enjoy  it? — enjoy  the  new  respon 
sibilities — the  new  problems — a  struggle  with  the 
furnace  that  ends  only  when  the  struggle  with 
the  front  lawn  begins — the  new  conditions  of 
butcher  and  baker-dom,  and  the  strangeness  of 
keeping  your  water  supply  in  a  box  in  the  garret  I 

298 


THE   FIRST    OF    IT  299 

No;  certainly  he  does  not  enjoy  these  things,  al 
though  they  surely  occupy  his  mind;  nor  does 
he  enjoy  the  breaking  up  of  his  settled  ways  of 
city  life — the  loss  of  his  pleasant  stroll  uptown 
from  the  office;  of  his  half-hour's  smoke  at  the 
club ;  of  his  careless  stroll  through  art-gallery  or 
auction-room;  of  his  luxurious  idle  hour  before 
dinner,  and  of  his  easy  transition  to  the  theatre 
or  the  opera  afterward.  These  things  are  a  part 
of  his  life,  and  he  misses  them;  and  deep  in  his 
heart  he  believes  that  he  always  will  miss  them 
to  the  end  of  the  chapter;  but,  after  all,  this  is 
not  where  the  shoe  pinches.  His  new  world 
must  have  joys  of  its  own,  even  though  it  denies 
him  those  of  the  old.  And,  after  all,  it  is  one 
whose  importance  he  has  calculated  exactly,  and 
to  which  he  has  thoroughly  made  up  his  mind. 
No,  no;  the  pinch  is  not  here.  He  could  readily 
enough  accommodate  his  old  foot  to  the  new  shoe 
if  only — his  old  friends  wouldn't  step  on  it. 

But,  oh!  those  old  friends!  How  the  faces  of 
them  have  changed!  For  years  he  has  been  fa 
miliar  with  their  kindly  jests  and  gibes;  and  he 
has  never  regarded  them  as  anything  worse  than 
pleasant  tributes  to  his  pleasant  individuality, 
and  he  laughs  as  heartily  as  they  do  when  he  is 
rallied  on  the  peculiarities  of  his  tastes  and  habits 
and  fancies.  Now,  however,  he  is  made  to  un 
derstand  beyond  peradventure  that  he  has  put 
himself  out  of  the  pale  of  that  generous  com 
munion,  and  that  his  claims  to  delicate  considera 
tion  are  held  to  be  forfeit  unless  he  is  willing  to 


300  THE   FIEST   OF   IT 

bow  himself  in   the   dust   and  humble  himself 
before  the  righteous. 

At  first  he  is  only  surprised  and  puzzled  and 
pained  when  he  finds  the  jests  of  his  old  city  com 
panions  taking  on  a  tone  not  in  the  least  sugges 
tive  of  urban  courtesy.  It  is  more  in  wonder 
than  in  anger  that  he  perceives  the  bitter,  re 
sentful  undercurrent  of  the  humor  that  makes 
only  a  clumsy  pretense  to  be  as  genial  as  of  yore. 
He  knows,  of  course,  that  he  must  expect  some 
jokes  on  his  desertion  to  the  ranks  of  the  Hay 
seeds;  but  he  cannot  understand  why,  for  the 
first  time,  these  jests  that  come  from  friendly 
lip  should  be  edged  and  pointed  to  cut  and 
wound;  why  they  should  come  so  strangely 
close  to  the  verge  of  the  positively  offensive;  or 
why  they  should  convey  a  suggestion  of  contemp 
tuously  indiscreet  familiarity.  After  a  while 
he  gets  a  light  on  the  subject,  but  it  is  not 
a  very  pleasant  light.  He  gets  an  idea  of  the 
double  crime  he  has  unconsciously  committed 
against  the  little  world  he  has  just  left.  In  the 
first  place,  he  has  taken,  with  deliberation  and 
foresight,  a  step  to  which  his  old  comrades  know 
that  they  all  may  be  forced  sooner  or  later;  and 
they  feel  toward  him  as  the  other  passengers 
would  naturally  feel  toward  a  man  who  said: 
"Oh,  well,  if  nobody  really  wants  first  choice 
of  berths,  I'll  take  the  extra  large  lower  one  in 
the  middle  section. "  In  the  second  place — and 
this  is  the  real  galling,  maddening,  stinging  thing 
that  he  has  done — he  has  shown  them  all,  quite 


THE   FIRST    OF   IT  301 

unconsciously  and  unintentionally,  but  all  the 
more  convincingly,  that  he  doesn't  think  it  worth 
while  to  sacrifice  to  their  gods  any  longer;  that 
he  has  made  his  own  estimate  of  the  game  that 
they  are  playing,  and  that  he  doesn't  think  it 
worth  the  amount  of  combustion  which  it  gets 
out  of  the  candle  of  human  vitality. 

And  yet  they  think  he  might  have  done  it  a 
little  longer,  just  as  they  are  doing  it,  bravely 
and  uncomplainingly.  He  might  have  figured  to 
get  the  children  to  the  seaside,  one  after  another, 
and  he  might  have  managed  for  his  wife  a  week 
or  two  at  Narragansett,  and  for  himself  a  few 
days  on  somebody's  yacht.  With  a  small  new 
economy  here,  and  another  one  there,  and  a  bit 
of  self-sacrifice  of  this  point,  and  a  risk  skilfully 
evaded  at  that,  it  ought  to  have  been  possible 
for  him  to  remain  at  least  a  few  years  longer 
a  resident  of  the  city,  though  one  dwelling  sixty 
or  eighty  feet  above  its  soil,  and  to  enjoy  the 
blessed  favor  and  privilege  of  inquiring  super 
ciliously  of  the  suburbanite: 

"What!  You  live  in  the  country?  And  do 
you  really  like  it,  living  out  there?" 

After  a  while  a  sort  of  resigned  pity  succeeds 
to  resentment  in  the  comments  which  the  sub 
urbanite's  friends  make  upon  his  dark  and  dis 
creditable  life.  There  even  comes  a  time  when 
they  accept  presents  of  flowers  and  fruit  and 
early  vegetables  from  him  with  the  patronizing 
kindness  and  curiosity  which  we  extend  to  the 
prisoner  who  craves  ingenious  knickknacks  in  his 
lonely  cell. 


302  THE   FIRST    OF   IT 

Then  there  comes  a  time  when  they  begin  to 
ask  casual,  indifferent  questions  about  the  price 
of  lots  in  his  neighborhood;  the  sort  of  society 
he  has;  what  he  does  to  amuse  himself;  and 
what  it  costs  to  keep  a  horse  in  the  country.  It 
is  unnecessary  to  say,  however,  that  it  never  en 
ters  the  innocent  mind  of  the  suburbanite  that 
these  questions  are  anything  but  a  desire  to  obtain 
general  information,  or  that  they  display  any 
intention  on  the  part  of  his  haughty  associates  to 
join  him  in  his  rural  walk  in  life. 

And  so  the  time  goes  on,  the  suburbanite  set 
tling  himself,  day  by  day,  more  comfortably  in 
the  ever-increasing  shadow  of  his  own  vine  and 
fig  tree;  but  always  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart, 
just  a  little  bit  pitying  himself;  until — 

It  so  happens  that  early  in  June  Mrs.  Shingle- 
roof  takes  the  children  to  pay  a  visit  to  her 
family,  and  Mr.  Shingleroof  is  left  a  bachelor 
for  a  couple  of  weeks.  Mr.  Shingleroof  is  to 
spend  the  term  of  his  bachelorhood  in  a  New 
York  hotel.  Mrs.  Shingleroof  has  suggested  the 
plan,  for  her  husband  may  not  soon  again  have 
such  an  opportunity  of  re-visiting  the  glimpses 
of  the  urban  moon  that  shone  so  brightly  on  his 
bachelor  vigils;  and  she  does  not  want  to  feel 
that  marriage  has  wholly  separated  her  husband 
from  his  old  friends. 

Shingleroof  has  just  seen  his  family  off  at  the 
Grand  Central,  and  is  wending  his  way  downtown 
when  he  meets  Brownstone.  He  has  not  seen 
much  of  Brownstone  within  the  last  three  years; 


THE   FIRST    OF   IT  303 

for  while  Brownstone  is  a  very  good  fellow  he 
is  known  as  a  great  wit  of  the  clubs,  and  at  one 
time  he  was  so  confoundedly  sarcastic  upon  a 
certain  subject,  that  really, — you  know — 

"Hello,  Shingleroof ! "  is  Brownstone 's  greet 
ing,  "you're  the  very  man  I  want  to  see.  I  want 
to  ask  you  some  questions  about  that  place  you 
live  in,  and  I  want  you  to  make  some  inquiries 
there  for  me.  Are  you  going  out  there  to-night  ? ' ' 

Shingleroof  explains,  and  Brownstone  has  a 
brilliant  idea.  Shingleroof  must  spend  a  week 
with  him,  and  he  a  week  with  Shingleroof.  The 
first  week  is  to  be  a  mad  revel  among  the  won 
ders  of  the  town;  the  second  week  is  to  be  one 
of  quiet  recuperation  and  exploration  in  suburban 
scenes.  "We'll  have  a  rattling  high  old  time," 
says  Brownstone;  "just  like  the  old  days,  and 
then  we'll  go  out  to  your  place  and  loaf  it  off. 
You  are  in  for  a  holiday,  anyway,  and  I  can  get 
my  partner  to  run  the  office  for  a  few  days." 

The  rattling  good  time  rattles  less  than  they 
had  expected.  Three  or  four  nights  of  the  thea 
tres  and  music  halls  make  them  both  more  than 
willing  to  spend  a  quiet  evening  at  home — 
Brownstone 's  home — but  the  evening  is  so  quiet 
that  Shingleroof  goes  to  bed  at  half-past  nine 
o'clock — but  not  to  sleep,  for  the  roar  of  the 
city  breaks  his  slumbers.  In  the  daytime  he 
finds  Brownstone 's  clubs  somewhat  too  prim  and 
poky.  He  has  lost  track  of  the  personalities. 
He  feels  out  of  place,  too,  among  the  pale, 
precise  people,  he  with  his  ruddy  brown  face, 


304  THE   FIEST    OF   IT 

and  his  clothes  that  are  just  the  same  as  theirs, 
only  they  aren't.  One  stranger  takes  him  for 
an  African  explorer. 

On  Friday  night  they  see  their  last  show,  and 
go  out  of  town  on  the  midnight  train  to  see  a 
tennis  tournament  at  Shingleroof's  Field  Club. 
And,  as  he  walks  up  the  broad,  silent  road, 
breathing  in  the  sweet  night  breeze  under  the 
great  arching  elms,  Shingleroof  is  conscious  of 
a  new,  strange  and  glad  sensation. 


He  is  up  bright  and  early  the  next  morning, 
happy  in  the  sunlight,  the  whispering  trees,  the 
wind  blowing  through  his  many  windows;  happy 
in  the  songs  of  birds;  happy  even  in  picking 
out  the  voices  of  individual  dogs  from  among 
the  great  and  tireless  orchestra  that  barks  and 
yelps  and  bays  all  around  him.  He  gets  into 
his  flannels  and  goes  downstairs  and  shakes 
hands  with  everybody  in  the  house,  like  a  pa 
triarch  in  old  days  coming  home  from  a  journey. 
He  hears  the  homely  news  of  the  town — who  is 
sick,  and  who  has  got  well;  how  the  water  isn't 
roily  any  more,  and  what  Mr.  Dogberry  said 
about  the  sick  terrier.  He  and  his  Man  (or 
nearly  so)  inspect  every  corner  of  his  small 
domain,  and  look  his  seventeen-year-old  horse 
over  as  though  he  were  a  probable  winner  of 
the  Suburban.  In  his  trim  garden  he  rejoices 
in  his  radishes  and  is  content  with  his  corn. 


THE   FIRST   OF   IT  305 

He  strolls  out  on  the  highway  and  receives  a 
cheery  greeting  from  every  passer-by;  from  the 
easy-going  townspeople  to  the  brisk  commuters; 
from  the  butcher  in  his  snowy-hued  wagon,  and 
the  doctor  in  his  rusty  gig.  The  boy  with  the 
milk  stops  to  inform  him  that  "We  waxed  de 
Woodstocks,  and  I  swiped  free  ball  off  of 
dem."  The  young  tennis  enthusiasts,  coming 
back  from  before-breakfast  practice,  cross  the 
street  to  tell  him  of  the  chances  of  the  game. 
Before  he  has  been  out  ten  minutes  he  has  been 
asked  to  score  for  a  ball  match,  referee  in  the 
tennis  final,  subscribe  to  the  fund  for  a  new 
church  organ,  and  buy  three  tickets  to  the  pic 
nic  of  the  Friendly  Sons  of  Abyssinians.  He 
feels  quite  at  home. 

Then  he  looks  up  and  sees  Brownstone  stand 
ing  by  him.  Brownstone  in  patent-leather  shoes, 
pearl-gray  trousers,  black  cutaway  coat,  high- 
collared  shirt,  and,  for  some  mysterious  reason, 
in  a  silk  hat.  He,  too,  has  been  out  for  a  walk, 
and  he  has  got  into  the  only  patch  of  under 
brush  within  a  mile.  Clinging  green  memen 
tos  of  his  trip  decorate  him  from  head  to  foot. 
He  feels  that  Brownstone  is  not  doing  him 
credit  in  the  eyes  of  the  young  tennis  players, 
but  he  is  too  happy  to  be  cross,  and  he  inquires 
if  his  guest  has  had  a  good  night. 

"Ye-es,"  replies  Brownstone,  doubtfully; 
"that  is,  those  wretched  dogs  and  birds  of 
yours  kept  me  awake  a  good  deal  of  the  night. 
I  say,  what  will  take  grass  stains  out  of  my 


306  THE    FIRST    OF   IT 

trousers,  and  is  this  prickly  stuff  here  what  you 
call  poison  ivy?" 

Brownstone  will  go  to  town  on  Monday  morn 
ing  just  to  see  if  his  partner  is  doing  all  right, 
and  he  will  tell  his  host  that  he  will  surely  be 
back  that  evening  unless  pressing  business  de 
tains  him.  Shingleroof  knows  that  pressing 
business  will  detain  him,  but  he  cares  not  a 
cent.  He  can  get  along  without  Brownstone 's 
company,  even  though  his  wife  and  children 
be  absent;  he  is  at  home — not  at  Brownstone 's 
home — at  Shingleroof 's  home. 

And  that  makes  all  the  difference. 


THE    SPORTING    SCHEME 

THE  train  had  been  flagged  at  a  little 
station  in  New  Jersey,  and  I  looked 
out  the  window  to  see  if  any  passengers 
were  likely  to  come  aboard,  for  I  was  getting 
lonely  in  the  great  empty  smoking-car.  It  was 
a  gloomy  day,  too  dark  to  read  with  comfort, 
and  a  fine,  drizzling  rain  was  beginning  to  fall. 
The  sight  of  the  company  on  the  platform 
at  once  awakened  my  interest.  They  had  just 
crossed  over  from  a  little  real  estate  office  which 
stood  across  the  way  from  the  station,  and  they 
formed  a  curious  and  striking  collection  of  in 
dividuals.  One  was  a  sour,  saturnine,  middle- 
aged  man,  who  carried  a  dinner-pail.  He  was 
shaking  his  head  obdurately  in  negative  answer 
to  what  were  evidently  persistent  pleadings  on 
the  part  of  another  man,  a  small,  spry  person, 
cheaply  clothed,  who  looked  as  if  he  might  be 
a  sewing-machine  agent  or  the  "advance"  of  a 
circus.  The  other  six  men  were  startlingly  dif 
ferent  in  appearance  from  the  other  two  talk 
ers.  They  were  all  large,  burly  men,  with  rosy 
cheeks,  close-cropped  hair,  a  well-groomed  ap 
pearance  generally,  and  clothes  that  were  at  once 
expensive,  English  and  loud.  Two  wore  riding- 
breeches,  one  under  a  great  white  box-coat,  the 

307 


308  THE   SPORTING  SCHEME 

other  with  a  covert-coat.  Another  was  in  the 
"pink"  of  an  English  fox-hunter;  and  the  fourth 
wore  a  tweed  suit  with  checkerboard  stockings, 
baggy  knee-breeches,  and  a  cap.  This  man  car 
ried  a  golf  stick.  The  other  two  men,  although 
they  belonged  to  the  same  general  type,  wore 
coachmen's  liveries.  Each  of  the  six  carried  a 
heavy  black  rubber  overcoat  on  his  arm.  The 
big  men  accompanied  the  two  others  in  silence. 

My  window  was  open,  and  I  could  hear  the 
conversation  as  they  approached. 

"You  won't  do  it,  then?"  the  little  man  was 
saying;  "not  even  if  I  find  the  horses?  Well, 
all  right;  just  as  you  say;  but  I  tell  you,  man, 
you  are  losing  the  chance  of  your  life!" 

The  man  with  the  tin-pail  shook  his  head 
and  went  away,  and  the  little  man  suddenly 
turned  upon  his  companions,  full  of  the  rage  of 
disappointment. 

"Climb  on  there,  you  tarriers!"  he  said,  ad 
dressing  the  elegant  group  with  every  mani 
festation  of  disrespect.  "It's  your  fool  mugs 
that  hoodoo  the  business.  Get  aboard,  you 
damn  micks!  You  ain't  worth  your  feed!" 

And  he  drove  them  before  him  into  the  smok 
ing-car. 

"Get  up  there,  you  potato-peelers!"  he  said. 
"Get  up  to  the  further  end  of  the  car.  I  won't 
sit  with  you.  I  am  sick  of  you.  And  put  on 
your  coats,  you  yahoos.  I  don't  care  if  it  is 
hot;  I  ain't  going  to  let  you  spoil  those 
clothes." 


THE    SPORTING    SCHEME  309 

He  had  sunk  down  into  a  seat  across  the  aisle 
before  he  perceived  me  and  caught  my  wonder 
ing  eye.  At  once  he  crossed  over. 

" Sounds  kinder  queer,  doesn't  it?"  he  said. 
"Well,  just  be  so  good  as  not  to  give  it  away, 
and  I'll  explain." 

He  produced  a  business  card  and  handed  it 
to  me.  It  read: 


I.   LEGGET, 
SPORT  BOOMER, 

Refers  to  every  Real  Estate  Dealer  in  New  Jersey. 


"Don't  catch  on?"  he  inquired.  "Well,  it's 
a  pretty  original  scheme  of  my  own.  It  didn't 
work  at  that  place,  and  I  was  a  fool  to  bother 
with  a  real  estate  agent  who  would  carry  his 
dinner  in  a  can.  But,  you  see,  that's  a  religious 
community.  All  towns  in  New  Jersey  may  be 
divided  into  two  classes — religious  and  sporting. 
Now,  my  business  is  booming  sport  towns.  Want 
to  see  how  I  do  it?  Well,  you  wait  until  I  get 
two  stations  further  on,  where  I  drop  this  gang 
to  relieve  another  one.  It's  a  junction,  that 
station  is,  and  we'll  be  just  in  time  for  a  train 
from  New  York  on  the  other  branch.  You'll 
see  my  boys  work  a  train,  and  you'll  see  how  my 


310  THE   SPORTING   SCHEME 

scheme  can  build  up  a  community.  Here,  IVe 
got  to  give  them  some  orders!" 

Going  up  to  the  other  end  of  the  car,  he  talked 
earnestly  for  a  long  time  to  the  six  big  men, 
who  listened  with  awe  on  their  faces.  I  caught 
his  closing  words: 

"Now,  behave  yourselves  for  once,  you  chumps, 
and  show  the  gentleman  how  the  trick's  done, 
and  you  shall  have  a  can  of  beer  when  you  get 
paid  off." 

"Yis,  sorr,"  said  the  man  in  the  covert  coat; 
"we  will,  sorr;  thank  you  kindly,  sorr." 

The  little  man  came  back  to  me  just  as  the 
second  station  hove  in  sight.  This  was  a  very 
different  place  from  the  desolate  domain  of  the 
agent  with  the  tin-can.  Through  the  trees  in 
every  direction  I  could  see  the  light  wood  of 
unfinished  houses.  New  paint  shone  on  a  score 
of  commodious  villas.  There  was  also  a  real 
estate  office  near  the  station,  but  it  was  a  neat 
and  attractive  structure,  and  a  portly,  well-fed 
gentleman  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"Drill,  ye  tarriers!"  shouted  the  little  man 
to  the  big  ones.  "Hustle  over  to  the  other  plat 
form.  There's  Mickey's  gang  over  there.  Tell 
Mickey  to  drill  them  with  you  till  the  New  York 
train  is  gone.  They'll  have  plenty  of  time  left 
to  get  aboard  here." 

As  the  men  hurried  across  the  platform  they 
were  met  by  another  group  similar  in  appear 
ance,  several  of  whom  led  horses.  One  had  a 
horse  of  some  blood  drawing  a  dog-cart.  One 


THE    SPORTING   SCHEME          311 

of  the  footmen  immediately  took  his  station  at 
the  head  of  this  animal,  while  the  other  received 
from  the  agent  a  dressing-suit  case  and  a  leather 
gun-case,  which  he  held,  one  in  each  hand,  stand 
ing  erectly  in  the  station  door.  Four  of  the 
magnificent  gentlemen  then  mounted  the  horses, 
with  considerable  difficulty — in  fact,  they  had  to 
be  boosted  up  by  their  companions.  The  others 
assumed  much  easier  attitudes  upon  their  own 
feet.  One  or  two  lit  cigars.  The  man  in  the 
checkerboard  smoked  a  brierwood  pipe.  The 
agent  distributed  hunting-crops  among  them,  and 
a  small  boy  came  out  with  a  case  of  gleeks  and 
teeing  irons  and  putters,  and  the  rest  of  them, 
and  stood  behind  the  checkerboards  exactly  like 
a  Scotch  or  English  caddie.  All  maintained 
absolute  silence. 

It  was  on  this  ravishing  spectacle  of  sport 
and  fashion  that  the  New  York  train  drew  up. 
Out  came  a  group  of  seekers  of  suburban  homes. 
They  were  probably  mostly  city  people;  but 
when  they  saw  that  display  of  sporting  style 
they  stared  about  them  like  a  lot  of  hayseeds 
on  Broadway.  Before  we  started  I  saw  the 
whole  group  safely  herded  into  the  real  estate 
office.  Then  the  little  man  brought  his  second 
shift  of  men  back  into  the  car. 

"There!"  said  he;  "that  catches  them  every 
time.  There  weren't  ten  houses  in  that  town 
six  months  ago.  I  did  it — every  bit  of  it." 

"But  don't  they  discover  the  imposition  after 
a  while?"  I  inquired.  "Surely  your  new  set- 


312  THE    SPORTING    SCHEME 

tiers  must  some  time  find  out  that  these  decoy- 
ducks  of  yours  don't  live  in  the  town." 

"There  is  no  imposition,  my  dear  sir!"  re 
joined  the  little  man,  less  warmly.  "The  people 
who  are  attracted  by  that  sort  of  thing  are  every 
bit  as  bad  fake-sports  as  my  bog-trotters  here. 
These  poor  fellows  of  mine  are  honest  laboring 
men  out  of  employment.  They  do  this  thing  for 
their  board  and  lodging — you  see  I  feed  them 
well — and  they're  a  good  deal  better  men  than 
most  of  the  dudes  who  think  they  can't  live 
without  white  boxcoats  and  balloon  riding- 
breeches. 

"Of  course,"  he  resumed,  after  a  moment  of 
reflection,  "it  don't  do  to  work  a  town  too  long. 
There  have  been  revulsions  of  feeling,  and  my 
tarriers  have  had  the  hose  played  on  them.  But, 
you  see,  it's  the  regular  secret  society  business. 
The  people  who  are  caught  want  to  catch  others. 
I've  known  them  to  go  out  in  their  own  sport 
clothes  and  drill  with  my  boys  when  the  express 
trains  came  in.  Oh,  man,  you  don't  understand 
the  real  estate  business!" 

Mr.  Legget  sank  into  a  deep  reverie  on  the 
greatness  of  his  scheme,  from  which  he  awoke 
with  a  sudden  start. 

"Here,"  said  he,  "I'm  forgetting  myself.  I've 
got  to  inspect  these  men  before  I  go  to  Jersey 
City.  I  have  got  to  have  them  out  on  two  more 
of  these  infernal  criss-cross  New  Jersey  rail 
roads  before  dark.  Here,  you  flannel-mouths, 
stand  up  in  the  aisle  and  be  inspected.  Larry 


THE   SPORTING   SCHEME          313 

Dooley,  you  wear  your  pants  too  hard.  If  you 
ain't  more  careful  of  them  I'll  lay  you  off  for 
a  week.  Maloney,  your  red-flannel  shirt  is  show 
ing  over  your  shirt-collar.  Corrigan,  I  saw  you 
at  the  station  without  gloves.  I've  a  mind  to 
stop  your  supper  for  that.  Do  you  think  those 
red  mud-scoops  of  yours  look  like  Tuxedo  or 
the  Meadowbrook  Hunt?  McCarty,  if  you  strike 
any  more  matches  on  yourself  you'll  hear  from 
me.  Owney  Muldoon,  my  friend,  the  next  time 
you  hold  on  to  a  horse's  ears  to  keep  yourself 
steady,  you'll  get  the  sack.  Now,  hustle  over 
to  the  Greenwood  Lake  branch,  every  mother's 
son  of  you,  and  take  the  tobacco  out  of  your 
mouths  before  you  get  into  the  train." 

"Say,"  said  Mr.  Legget  to  me,  turning  back 
after  we  had  parted;  "you  don't  know  any 
lady-like  young  women  in  reduced  circumstances, 
do  you,  who'd  do  the  tailor-made  girl  for  me? 
I'd  pay  them  well,  and  they'd  beat  the  Micks 
out  of  sight." 

I  said  "No!"  and  he  chased  his  four  sporting 
swells  and  their  footmen  into  another  smoking- 
car. 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  THE 
SUBURBANITE 


A  DRAMATIC  SKETCH  IN  FIVE  TABLEAUX 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

MR.  SUBURBANITE 4  married  New  Yorker  of 

moderate  means,  lately  set 
tled  in  Commutahville,  N.  J. 

MR.  CITT His  friend,  an  unmarried 

New  Yorker  of  moderate 
means. 

MR.  NEXT Friend  of  Mr.  Citt.  Also  an 

unmarried  New  Yorker  of 
moderate  means. 

TIME:    The  Present 

TABLEAU  I.  SCENE:  A  Pleasant  Suburban 
Road.  Neat  Cottage  in  fore 
ground,  with  front  lawn.  View 
of  hills,  etc.,  in  distance. 

MR.  SUBURBANITE  discovered,  escorting  MR. 
CITT  to  the  Sunday  afternoon  train.  The  latter 
carries  a  hand-bag.  He  has  been  spending  the 
day  at  Commutahville. 

314 


EVOLUTION  OF  THE  SUBURBANITE     315 

MR.  CITT  (with  an  expression  of  kindly  supe 
riority,  gazing  carelessly  and  superciliously  about 
him). — Nice  sort  of  little  place  you  have  here, 
Subby.  I  suppose  you'll  get  to  like  it  pretty 
well,  too,  after  a  while.  Let's  see,  you  used  to 
say  that  you  rather  liked  country  life,  didn't 
you?  Seems  kind  of  funny  to  see  you  in  a  place 
like  this,  though.  I  should  think  you'd  find  it 
slow  a  good  deal  of  the  time.  7  should,  I  know. 
However,  as  you  say,  the  children — you  know 
best,  of  course,  what  suits  you — but  I  should 
think — Oh!  is  that  the  train?  (Shaking  hands 
warmly  and  hurriedly.)  Well,  good-by;  I've 
had  a  charming  day!  Tell  Mrs.  Suburbanite 
how  much  I've  enjoyed  it!  So  long! 

(Exit,  running.) 


TABLEAU  II.  SCENE:  Same  Pleasant  Sub 
urban  Road.  Same  neat  Cottage 
in  foreground,  with  same  front 
lawn.  Same  view  of  hills,  etc.,  in 
distance. 

MR.  SUBURBANITE  discovered,  accompanying 
MR.  CITT  to  the  Monday  morning  train.  MR.  CITT 
still  carries  a  hand-bag,  but  his  demeanor  is  less 
proud  and  more  genial.  He  is  thinking  of  a  girl 
he  knows  in  town,  and  wishing  that  MRS.  SUB 
URBANITE  knew  her,  and  would  ask  her  out. 


316     EVOLUTION  OF  THE  SUBURBANITE 

MR.  CITT  (gazing  about  "him,  approvingly}. — 
Really,  you  are  very  nicely  settled  here,  Subby, 
old  man.  Seems  to  have  done  yon  good,  too. 
Gad!  I  never  knew  yon  were  snch  a  walker. 
Say,  these  macadam  roads  must  be  elegant  for 
tandem  bicycles,  mustn't  they?  I  s'pose  yon 
really  like  it  out  here,  don't  you?  Of  course 
you  do,  or  you  wouldn't  stay.  Well,  if  you  do 
want  to  live  in  the  country,  I  suppose  you 
couldn't  have  chosen  a  better  place,  in  its  way. 
That  little  view  down  there  (pointing},  that's 
really  very  pretty  a  morning  like  this,  don't 
you  know.  Spring  makes  everything  look  pretty, 
though,  I  suppose. 

(Exeunt,  strolling,  to  catch  the  train  ~by  one- 
eighth-of-a-second.) 


TABLEAU  III.  SCENE:  Just  the  same  Pleas 
ant  Suburban  Road.  Just  the 
same  neat  Cottage  in  foreground, 
with  just  the  same  front  lawn. 
Just  the  same  view  of  hills,  etc., 
in  distance. 

MR.  SUBURBANITE  discovered,  accompanying 
MR.  CITT  to  the  Wednesday  morning  train.  MR. 
CITT  carries  no  hand-bag.  He  has  got  to  the 
point  of  leaving  his  things  at  the  house,  and  run 
ning  out  when  he  feels  like  it.  He  is  engaged 


EVOLUTION  OF  THE  SUBURBANITE     317 

to  the  girl  in  New  York;  and  he  looks  around 
him  with  balmy  ecstasy  bubbling  in  his  heart 
and  beaming  out  of  his  eyes. 

MR.  CITT. — No,  old  man;  I'm  sorry,  but  I 
shan't  be  out  again  to-night.  Nellie  will  be  at 
Narragansett  at  the  end  of  the  week,  and  I  must 
hurry  up  and  get  some  work  done  if  I  want  to 
get  off  and  see  her.  If  it  wasn't  for  that,  I'd 
love  to  stay.  Really,  I  don't  believe  you  fellows 
who  live  out  here  all  the  time  quite  appreciate 
what  a  good  time  you  have.  Why,  I  met  Lugsby 
in  town  the  other  day,  and  he  was  perfectly  en 
thusiastic  over  his  visit  here.  Said  he  hadn't 
enjoyed  himself  so  much  in — he  didn't  know 
when.  Oh!  there's  no  doubt  about  it,  you've  got 
a  most  delightful,  rational  way  of  life.  Of  course 
Nellie  and  I  wouldn't  care  to  live  anywhere  ex 
cept  in  New  York;  but  I  suppose  there's  no 
doubt  about  it,  you  fellows  out  here  in  the 
country  get  more  in  return  for  your  money  than 
we  do  in  the  city.  Now  what,  for  instance,  did 
you  say  that  little  gray  house  over  there  on  the 
hill  rented  for?  Oh,  yes;  five  hundred  dollars. 
Cheap,  isn't  it,  for  such  a  location?  And  then 
that  view!  Why,  Lugsby — you  know  how  un 
demonstrative  he  is? — he  was  quite  enthusiastic 
over  that  view.  He  said  there  was  something 
Swiss  about  it. 

(Exeunt  MR.  CITT,  talking  steadily.) 


318 

TABLEAU  IV.  SCENE:  Same  identical  Sub 
urban  Road.  Same  identical  neat 
Cottage  in  foreground,  with  same 
identical  front  lawn.  Same  iden 
tical  view  of  hills,  etc.,  in  distance. 

MR.  SUBURBANITE  discovered,  escorting  MR. 
CITT  to  last  Sunday  afternoon  train.  MR.  CITT'S 
bearing  is  no  longer  either  proud  or  exultant; 
but  humble,  grateful  and  anxious.  He  is  married 
and  is  the  father  of  one  child,  aged  at  the  present 
moment  21  days,  4  hours  and  56  minutes.  He 
wears  an  ulster,  and  he  grasps  his  friend's  hand 
with  effusive  warmth  at  parting. 

MR.  CITT. — Well,  good-by,  old  man.  You've 
been  awfully  kind  to  take  so  much  trouble.  I 
feel  as  if  I'd  been  confoundedly  selfish,  don't 
you  know,  taking  up  your  Sunday  in  dragging 
you  all  over  those  cold  houses;  but,  really,  I 
shouldn't  know  what  to  do  if  it  wasn't  for  your 
advice.  No;  I  positively  can't  stay  to  dinner — 
Mrs.  Suburbanite  is  just  as  good  as  she  can  be 
— but  I  must  get  back  to  the  flat.  The  doctor 
says  Nellie  can  sit  up  to  dinner  to-day,  if  she's 
had  a  good  day,  and  I  know  the  poor  child  has 
simply  set  her  heart  on  it.  Your  wife  under 
stands,  I  am  sure.  I  can't  tell  you  how  relieved 
I  shall  be  when  I  get  Nellie  and  the  baby  out 
here  in  the  fresh  air  and  quiet!  She  can't  help 
getting  back  her  strength  here;  don't  you  think 
sof  And  she'll  enjoy  it  so!  And  that  view! 


EVOLUTION  OF  THE  SUBURBANITE     319 

Think  of  having  that  view  to  look  at  instead  of 
that  miserable  dark  city  street !  Why,  every  time 
I  see  that  view,  it  reminds  me  of  Switzerland! 
And  you'll  tell  the  agent  that  I'll  take  the  Du- 
senberry  cottage — the  gray  one,  I  mean,  not  the 
other — you  know.  Good-by,  again,  and  thank 
you  ever  so  much.  Nellie  will  be  simply  de 
lighted  when  I  tell  her. 

(Exit,  computing  interest.) 


TABLEAU  V.  SCENE:  Same  Pleasant  Sub 
urban  Road.  TWO  Neat  Cottages 
in  foreground,  with  TWO  front 
lawns.  Same  view  of  same  hills, 
etc.,  in  same  distance. 

MR.  CITT  discovered,  escorting  MR.  NEXT  to 
the  Sunday  afternoon  train.  The  latter  carries 
a  hand-bag.  He  has  been  spending  the  day  in 
Commutahville  with  his  old  friend  and  former 
bachelor  companion,  MR.  CITT,  late  of  New  York. 
With  an  expression  of  kindly  superiority  he 
gazes  carelessly  and  superciliously  about  him. 

MR.  CITT  (with  feverish  enthusiasm). — Pretty 
nice  now,  isn't  it?  I  don't  believe  there's  an 
other  place  like  this  within  twenty — no,  sir, 
within  forty  miles  of  New  York.  I'll  tell  you 
what  it  is,  Next,  my  boy,  what  you  want  to  do 
is  to  marry  a  nice  girl,  and  come  out  here  and 
settle  down  with  us.  It's  the  only  real  way  to 


320     EVOLUTION  OF  THE  SUBUBBANITE 

enjoy  life.  Now,  there's  that  house  I  had  be 
fore  I  built  my  present  one — the  Dusenberry 
cottage  up  there  on  the  hill — put  a  few  hundred, 
or  maybe  a  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  repairs 
into  that — to  the  plumbing  and  that  sort  of  thing 
— and  it  will  make  a  cottage  fit  for  a  king.  And 
that  view ! — man  alive,  look  at  that  view !  Could 
you  imagine  you  were  within  one  hour  of  New 
York?  Why,  man,  it's  Switzerland,  that's  what 
it  is!  It's  Switzerland! 

(Exeunt.    The  train  booms  in  the  distance.) 

SO  SPINS — TO  END  IT  WITH  A  EHYME 

THAT  VENGEFUL  WHIRLING  OF  TIME! 


// 


UC  SOUT' 


HERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARVFACIUTV 


lil i li IM ''•   .  .    of-\~7 


